


Choices

by AParticularlyLargeBear



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: All Backstories, Friendship, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParticularlyLargeBear/pseuds/AParticularlyLargeBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the DA Kink meme: At one point, Cullen asks the Inquisitor what they would have done if they hadn't been the Herald. There's the option to respond 'I would have joined anyway.' This is that. All backgrounds of the Inquisitor coming, through one route or another, to join the Inquisition in their own unique ways. Presented in a series of short scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dusty Cadash

**Author's Note:**

> Dusty: http://imgur.com/5Mj48hm

There are some things in life that just make a dwarf question their life decisions.  
  
Cadash – ‘Dusty’ to most, reaches this point not during any of her general thievery, cheating, or backstabbing, but when she finds herself smuggling lyrium.  
  
Shifty surface dwarf sneaking around with shipments of lyrium. She sounds like a character out of a sodding Tethras. A  _bad_  Tethras.   
  
When the Carta says there’s money in it, though, Dusty doesn’t get to complain. All they care about is that there’s good coin in moving lyrium to this ‘Inquisition group’, and to them, she’s nothing more a common footpad. Being  _good_  at being a footpad doesn’t change the fact that she’s highly expendable, and not listening to orders is a very good way to rise to the top of the expense list. Complaining is another, no matter how anxious the concept of waltzing into a military stronghold next to a hole in the sky makes her.  
  
So it’s with some apprehension that the dwarf walks on up to the gates of the town called Haven, doing her best not to let it show by keeping a slight swagger in her step. She’s passed a smith already, but apparently it isn’t him that handles this kind of thing. Fantastic – this Inquisition business is so big that they’ve got their own sodding quartermasters. The scope of the operations here makes her stomach knot with unease, cause it means the threat must be even more dire than she’d first thought. Dusty’s not sure whether it would be worse if the Inquisition was tiny and nobody was paying attention to the Breach at all.   
  
“You’re looking a little lost there.”  
  
Dusty, standing still inside of the gates as she tries to figure out where she needs to go, almost has a heart attack when she looks around, because  _what the ever-loving sod that’s Varric Tethras_.  
  
_Okay. Play this cool. Just because he wrote your favourite book ever doesn’t mean that you need to freak out. Just say ‘Oh I’m looking for a place to drop off some lyrium; say, you’re that author, right?’_  
  
Dusty opens her mouth. A high pitched squeak comes out.  
  
_Sod!_  
  
Tethras smiles, and a chuckle isn’t far behind. “Would you believe me if I told you that’s a better reaction than most I’ve been getting lately?”  
  
She finally manages a word, and it’s stammered. “M…maybe?” Great. She’s meeting a personal hero out of the blue and she’s acting like a thick-skulled rock licker.   
  
“Well, I’m guessing you’re here with lyrium?”  
  
Dusty’s eyebrows must have risen, because Tethras fills in an explanation. “Your satchel is glowing. Also, you have that shifty smuggler look.”  
  
“So do you,” she blurts without thinking, then immediately claps a hand to her mouth, eyes going wide. Her and her damn mouth!  
  
After the briefest, dread-filled pause, Tethras just laughs again. “The Seeker would agree with you,” he gives a slight, flourishing bow. “Varric Tethras.”  
  
Dusty resists the urge to tell him that she knew that already. “Cadash. Dusty, if you want.”  
  
“Carta, huh? Well, since you haven’t tried to kill me yet, we’re already off to a better start than the last criminal ring I ran into.”  
  
“I could be waiting for you to let your guard down,” she’s smiling now. When did she start smiling? A kind of giddy excitement is running through her. She’s holding an actual conversation with the actual Varric Tethras, the man who created guardsman Donnen and all the rest of Hard in Hightown.  
  
“Around a shifty smuggler? You might be waiting a while,” Tethras taps his nose, and then gestures further into Haven. “You’ll be looking for Threnn, near the chantry. I was heading that way, so you can tag along if you’d like,” he pauses for long enough to grin. “Unless you’re just too in love with that whole ‘completely lost’ feeling.”   
  
“Lead on.”  
  
Tethras turns, and Dusty stares after him for a couple of seconds before following. Maybe this Inquisition gig won’t be so bad after all.

 


	2. Eldan Lavellan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashlynn, the inquisitor: http://imgur.com/2xQYANq  
> Eldan Lavellan: http://imgur.com/kayMBMj

“I don’t like it here. Shems everywhere.”  
  
Sitting cross-legged on top of a rock, Eldan Lavellan glances up to regard his companion, leaning against a nearby tree with arms folded and a dour expression on her face. Her Dal’Thanaan is planted in the snow alongside her, the axe’s half-buried blades glinting in the light.  
  
“You could always leave,” Eldan remarks mildly. “I’m sure the Keeper would like to hear what happened at the Conclave firsthand.”  
  
“Not a chance, _Lethallan_. If I go back without the First, the Keeper will skin me alive. Besides, reporting on the Conclave was your job, not mine.”  
  
How can he forget? Revea only takes every possible opportunity to remind him. Trying to make him feel guilty. Often it works; they’re a long way from home, and though they’d both been sent together, there’s a lot more to interest and engage Eldan than there is Revea. She, however, won’t leave without him, and sometimes it’s difficult to acknowledge that his choice to remain in Haven causes his clanmate no end of stress.  
  
“And now I’m reporting on the Inquisition, too.”  
  
Revea scowls at him and sharply tips her head forward, causing her floppy black fringe to drop into her eyes. It’s an unspoken signal that she’s done talking. Eldan tries not to sigh and goes back to perusing his book, a set of tales on Andraste and the Chant of Light. His companion, he knows, would have greatly disapproved if she was able to read the human language; she’s already given him a piece of her mind on what she thinks of the human Chantry. It’s a relief that she hasn’t asked what the book is, because he’s not sure that he’s a good enough liar to come up with a story. Eldan’s interest is scholarly, but he doubts Revea will see it that way.  
  
Being away from the clan has been… well, the only way that Eldan can put it is exhilarating. He’s never encountered humans outside of the context of driving them away, only met elves outside of Dalish clans a handful of times, and he’s certainly had no experience of dwarves. Clan Lavellan aren’t insular exactly, but that’s by Dalish standards; taking an interest in human affairs and actually spending time in human society are very different things. They even have mages here, something previously limited to encountering another Dalish clan in the Free Marches. Clan Lavellan has never had more than three mages, counting himself and the Keeper. Children manifesting magically are adopted out to other clans as best as they’re able.  
  
Regardless, Eldan has always wanted to learn more about magic, although most of those around Haven have been frustratingly averse to his questioning. Words like ‘apostate’ have been thrown about a lot, and he’s had plenty of dirty looks from the men and women with the sword sigil on their armour. It’s not that he wasn’t expecting hostility and suspicion from non-Dalish, more a sadness that sharing knowledge seems to be so little of a priority. The hole in the sky is a genuine threat; it seems to Eldan that everyone should be pooling what they know rather than questioning one another’s motives.  
  
Quiet footsteps from nearby, Eldan twists, noting as he does so that Revea has looked up and is already wearing a death glare.  
  
“Uh…  _Andaran atish’an_ ,” the pronunciation is laboured, and the realisation is instant that the speaker is not elven. As a matter of fact…  
  
Well, this is quite a surprise. The dark skinned woman approaching them is a person Eldan recognises, the one that they call the Herald. He’s heard her name before, he’s sure. Tre… Trevall… he can’t recall. Human names are still difficult.  
  
“What do you want, shem?” Revea is blunt as always, her hostility naked.  
  
The Herald is obviously taken aback, and Eldan hastily tries to mitigate the damage. “I apologise for Revea. She has little experience of shemlen-  _humans_. What can I do for you?”  
  
“Don’t worry. Right now, if the worst thing that happens to me in a day is hurt feelings, then I consider it a win,” she smiles, taking any of the potential sting out of her words.  
  
Revea’s glower is something exceptional; Eldan can feel its presence almost physically, even without looking at her. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“So I didn’t,” she looks back to Eldan, scrutinising for a moment. “You’re the Dalish mage I’ve been hearing about, right?”  
  
“I’m unaware of any others, so I imagine I must be.”  
  
“Uh huh…” The Herald nods, and for a second seems a little unsure of herself. “Okay I’m going to be honest here, I’ve got one person telling me you’re a spy and should be kicked out of Haven, one saying that we should imprison and interrogate you, and another two saying I should ask you to politely leave.”  
  
“Oh,” Eldan can’t muster much else of a response. This is unexpected, though he supposes that technically he is a spy, albeit a rather benign one as far as he’s concerned.  
  
Revea’s reaction is less mild. Immediately she reaches for the Dal’Thanaan, and the Herald takes a step back as the slim elf lifts a weapon half her size seemingly without effort. “I’d think carefully about your next move, shem,” she snarls. “The First is my responsibility, and-“  
  
“ _However_ ,” the Herald continues on as if a weapon isn’t being brandished at her. “So far as I can tell, your greatest crime has been curiosity, and I feel that’s less than punishable. If it was, I’d have been locked in a cell somewhere a long time ago,” her eyes are watching Revea’s axe, but she’s so very still. Her composure is remarkable. “Anyway, I’m not here to tell you to leave. You obviously care enough about the Breach to have not gone home of your own volition. So… how about instead of hanging around on the outside of things, you join the Inquisition? We try to treat everyone fairly, and the expertise of another mage would be-“  
  
“Shem, if you think-“  
  
“What are the terms?”  
  
“ _First_!” Revea’s voice is appalled. Eldan glances to her, and his companion’s face is just as stunned. “You can’t seriously be thinking about this.”  
  
His temper cracks, just a little. His hand snaps out, pointing to the swirling hole in the sky. “ _That_  is everyone’s problem,  _lethallin_ , not just humans or dwarves. It isn’t going to go away by itself. The Keeper wanted to know what happened at the Conclave and we have an answer. If you want to ignore what that answer might mean, then you can go back home!”  
  
Revea stares at him. Anger from Eldan is a rare sight. She lowers the axe, and then her head.   
  
The Herald hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “Well, as part of the Inquisition you’d be expected to listen to orders, but we’d aim to put you wherever you could be the most effective, and we wouldn’t force you to do anything that you didn’t want to. We’re not in the business of putting non-fighters on the front lines, apart from the really annoying quill pushers,” she holds up both hands, and for a brief instant, the vibrant green mark on her hand is visible. Like a scar, and yet something more. Eldan can feel the magic humming around it from here. “Kidding, kidding.”  
  
“That sounds reasonable to me. Very well, I accept your offer.”  
  
“Then welcome aboard,” the Herald puts out her hand in front of her. Eldan’s eyes drop to it. There’s an awkward silence.  
  
“It’s a hand,” she says after a few seconds. “You… shake it.”  
  
“Oh,” Eldan frowns. “Why?”  
  
The Herald’s brow furrows. “You know, I never really thought about it. I suppose it’s just a greeting, or a way to show a deal has been agreed,” she drops the hand after another awkward pause.  
  
Revea makes a small noise of disgust as the Herald nods, smiles, and turns back towards Haven.  
  
“Your friend is welcome too,” the human calls over her shoulder. “She reminds me of someone I know!”


	3. Dusty Cadash II

It’s a little strange how quickly Haven begins to feel like home. Dusty is used to being viewed with suspicion, at best, and she can’t even say that it’s unjustified. Most of her interactions with humans prior to the Inquisition generally involved either stealing from them or speaking with them as contacts… en route to stealing something. So really, she would totally have understood if everyone had spent the entire time there watching her hands, and it would have only hurt her feelings a little, even though she hasn’t picked a pocket since before this Breach business ever kicked off.  
  
However, not only do the people around treat her the same as any of the rest of their comrades, Dusty is actually starting to be recognised, and that’s more than a little alarming. Blending inconspicuously into the background is kind of her thing; it’s difficult to get anywhere as a conspicuous smuggler. Once she gets past the initial reaction of ‘oh sod, the lawmen know my face’, though, she’s able to see that it’s just, well… friendliness. The quartermaster Threnn always takes care to be polite, even though she really doesn’t have to. Some of the guards call out greetings when they see her approaching the gates , and then there’s the elven researcher Minaeve, with whom Dusty had quite an involved conversation about lyrium. It felt weird to be treated like an expert on anything, and if Dusty’s honest, she really isn’t, but it was nice to help out, even a little.  
  
Haven is just… different from the Carta. Back with the other Cadash, it’s a competition with cutthroat stakes. Who can bring in the biggest take? Who’s been hanging out with whom? Who’s pulled off the most impressive job? Which boss do you owe your loyalty to? Everyone’s looking out for themselves first and foremost, and anyone that tells you otherwise is, to a greater or lesser extent, lying through their teeth. Dusty can’t even claim it was any different for her; she kept to herself, didn’t ask questions, and did as she was told. The Inquisition by contrast… well, it’s not quite accurate to say that everyone works together; she sees friction all the time, especially between the ex-templars and the mages. Past that, though, there’s camaraderie, genuine cooperation, genuine belief in their cause. Somewhere along the way, spending days resting from the journey and helping out where she can, reluctance growing to leave and start the supply run all over again, she realises that maybe a little of that belief is creeping into her, too. Andraste was real, and this is real. Not like the Stone is doing anything for her up here, being a casteless exile and all.

It’s with that in mind that Dusty carefully approaches one of the tents close to Haven’s chantry. She’s always had that knack for moving quietly, and the hooded figure leaning over a table doesn’t move as she steps under the tent’s tarpaulin.   
  
“Can I help you?” the voice is cool, Orlesian-accented. Its owner straightens up but doesn’t turn.  
  
“I ah… I overheard some people calling you the Divine’s hand.”  
  
There’s a pause, and then the woman turns to regard Dusty. Her hair is red, though a little softer in hue than Dusty’s flaming crop-cut. She’s also wearing quite the frown. “I was,” she admits, and Dusty knows guard when she hears it.  
  
“I was… well… I was wondering if I could ask you some things. About the Maker.”  
  
The woman stares down as Dusty like she’s grown a second head, and then erupts in peals of laughter, a veritable fit of giggling that catches the dwarf completely by surprise.  
  
“That was not what I was expecting when I heard you walk in,” she eventually informs Dusty. The woman’s eyes sweep her, and for an instant, she feels completely bare. “I’ve seen you around. Yes, I think you’ve worked with some of my people. A smuggler, are you not?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s right.”  
  
The hooded woman looks back to her desk, where Dusty can just about make out page after page of letters. “Well, I suppose I have a moment,” she inclines her head. “I am Leliana.”  
  
“Dusty. Cadash.”  
  
“Mm, I know a story when I see one,” Leliana does not follow up on that enigmatic remark, though there’s a twinkle in her eyes as she says it. “All right, tell me; how familiar are you with the Chant of Light?”  
  
The half hour before Leliana is pulled back to her duties is amongst the most illuminating in Dusty’s entire life.


	4. Eldan Lavellan II

"The poultice will need replacing in three days. It’ll itch a great deal, but you must leave it be. If it discolours, come to me immediately.”  
  
Eldan’s patient, who can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen years old, gawks at him and then nods, standing up and walking away, staring at the mash of herbs that have been applied to his arm.  
  
It gives the Dalish a moment to catch his breath. The Hinterlands are a roiling mess, and nowhere moreso than the Crossroads, which have become something of a rallying point for all the refugees in the region. Just a few short weeks ago, the situation was even worse; Eldan’s mostly caught the aftermath of it all, but he’s heard enough stories from distraught wounded to know what was happening here before the Inquisition arrived. Mages and Templars at one another’s throats, not caring who got caught in the middle, not caring who their selfish ways harmed, no better than wild beasts.  
  
He has to admit that it’s overwhelming at times. Eldan’s magic, though he can twist the applications a little if he wishes, is largely based around healing and renewal. It’s been useful for many years amongst his clan, and more than one hunter owes their survival to him. As such, assisting the injured is a natural fit. It was only on the second day that Eldan realised that there were just too many hurt and sick for him to help personally. Magic can only stretch so far, and collapsing from exhaustion won’t help anyone. This is where the more conventional methods come into play; herbal remedies, unguents and potions, and in the most depressing cases, simple bandages, wound cleaning and aftercare. He tries not to wonder how many people have died who could have been saved by something as easy as fresh dressings.  
  
Revea is constantly hovering over him, fretting like a mother bird; looking out for anyone amongst the crowd of refugees that might wish her First harm. It doesn’t matter that Eldan protests the Crossroads are well defended and that there are plenty of Inquisition soldiers about. So far as she’s concerned, it’s her duty to protect him, and it’s clear enough from the look on her face that the sheer number of people around makes her uneasy. Eldan can’t blame her; the moment his concentration is diverted from saving lives, the oppressive atmosphere of just too many people in one place closes in on him. There are more refugees in this area alone than members of their clan, and that’s without counting the Inquisition troops using it as a staging area.

“That shem is looking at me weird,” Revea mutters, arms folded, standing vigilant watch over Eldan’s triage.  
  
“We’re Dalish,” Eldan answers mildly. “It would be odder if they didn’t find us unusual.”  
  
“A stupid child asked me who drew on my face, yesterday. He thought the _Vallaslin_ was paint.”  
  
“And did you explain our ways to him? Did you ensure he walked away from the encounter knowing more than when it began?”  
  
“…Shut up.”  
  
Eldan smiles sweetly at her, and she retaliates with her finest scowl. Revea’s scowls really are something quite spectacular; her lips go flat, with just a hint of downturning in the corners, her eyebrows drop, a single crease in her brow, tugging her _Vallaslin_ ever so slightly lopsided. And the look in her deep green eyes… well, it’s just pure murder, the kind of unadulterated venom that could strike a man dead at fifteen paces.  
  
Quite frankly the looks are so potent that Eldan has to wonder if she practices them in her spare time, in between pin cushioning targets with her bow and hewing dummies to pieces with that Dal’Thanaan of hers. Revea’s certainly perfected the art of the glower to be at least on par with her axework.  
  
“You’re always so tense, _lethallin_. Perhaps you should do a little hunting? I heard someone claiming that supplies were running low again. Productivity would do you some good.”  
  
“This again? First, I’m not leaving you without a guard-“  
  
“I’m surrounded with guards, and if anything untoward happens, we have watchtowers set up to give us forewarning. Besides, if you bring back some meat, it would make everyone a little more calm, less likely to do anything stupid. So in a way, you’d actually be protecting me still.”  
  
Revea eyes Eldan in silence for a very long time. “You’re too smart for your own good, First.”  
  
She turns on her heel and walks away, grabbing quiver and bow from her small pile of possessions as she does so. Eldan, left watching her go, feels tension creeping into his muscles. Hopefully he hasn’t just done the wrong thing…


	5. Andrew Trevelyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew: http://imgur.com/iJ3oNsx

“There’s been some more news out of Haven.”  
  
Andrew Trevelyan’s ears prick up. Surreptitiously, he shifts a little in his chair. His eyes remain on his book, but every facet of his attention fixes towards the hushed conversation emanating from between the shelves behind him.  
  
The Conclave was an abject failure; everyone in Ostwick’s circle knows that. Most of Ostwick’s circle was expecting it to fail in the first place. Nobody, though, has been in much of a mood for ‘told you so’s after hearing what happened there. They’d sent a delegation in the hopes of at least protecting their neutrality, and not a one had returned. Good people, good mages, dead to some kind of attack that breached the very Fade itself.  
  
Andrew had wanted to go, but had been denied on the grounds of his age. For once his youth had worked in his favour… but it’s very difficult to view it in that way. Difficult not to think that if had been there, it would have all somehow turned out differently. The magical might of a barely-out-of-apprenticeship student would surely have made all the difference.  
  
“Yes, there was a survivor apparently.”  
  
“And he closed the breach?”  
  
“She, but yes. That isn’t all, either.”  
  
Andrew strains to listen, but the speakers are getting further away, heading to some dark corner of the library no doubt.  
  
“… … an Inquisition.”  
  
“… is that? … … I’ve never…”  
  
And then one final word.  
  
“Trevelyan.”  
  
An eerie feeling not unlike having cool water poured over his head descends upon Andrew. He’s used to his name not meaning much, in spite of being faintly aware that it belongs to the nobility. It’s a little difficult to feel a particularly strong association when he was taken from his family at the age of six. Besides, the Templars never really cared about that, and the enchanters always advised him to do the same. Nobody in a Circle gets special treatment… at least not for which family they were born into.  
  
So in what context could they be mentioning his family and Haven at the same time? It’s plausible they mean him personally, he supposes, but that’s, to be frank, so little of a comfort that now that Andrew considers it, the possibility is actually worse. Anti-comfort. There goes his stupid brain doing that ‘thinking’ thing again and just exacerbating the problem.  
  
It’s been doing that a lot lately. Contemplating the consequences of Ostwick trying to stay out this whole mage-templar war. Assessing how ridiculous it is to attempt to avoid getting involved with a conflict that includes them automatically, by dint of what they were born with. Also, consistently reminding him that there’s that one library book that he really should get around to returning, only he can’t remember where he put it. Truly an existential mystery for the ages.  
  
Still. Even taking into account Andrew’s habit to dwell, and dwell hard, that was definitely his name he heard. What was it that they mentioned? An Inquisition? That’s not a term that Andrew is familiar with, though if he were to hazard a guess, he’d say that it sounds… templary. He’s a mage. If he can play around with the fabric of the world then he can make up words. He hopes that he’s wrong though, because the last thing Andrew wants to see out of the ashes of the Conclave is even more militant templars. A good chunk of them already have enough of a chip on their shoulder, although Andrew’s inner pessimist has to admit that, well, a hole being blown in the Fade does rather point to magical origins.  
  
Andrew sighs. Well now there’s just no way he’s going to be able to get back into reading. 


	6. Revea Lavellan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revea: http://i.imgur.com/jzIrJp9.png

Revea Lavellan wants to go home. She longs for the simplicities of clan life, scouting and hunting, herding the halla, helping push the aravels after they get stuck in the mud. She misses her friends and family, and even just the sound of her own language; Eldan won’t speak a word of elven in front of his patients, saying that they need to be at ease with their doctor. Since arriving at these crossroads, there’s hardly been a waking moment that hasn’t been occupied by patients.  
  
Each time she thinks of the Free Marches, or in those dark moments of the First’s gentle reminders that she does not need to stay if she does not wish, the Keeper’s words echo in the back of Revea’s mind.  
  
_‘Da’len, I am entrusting you with Eldan’s safety. The shemlen do not treat mages as we do, and he will be in danger. Watch over him at this ‘Conclave’, and please… make every effort to be careful. Go with Mythal’s blessing.’_  
  
The First is her responsibility, no matter how much he may assure her to the contrary. He’s not a fighter, never has been, even when they were both children and Eldan hadn’t demonstrated his magical abilities yet. To call him useless with a bow would be charitable, and Revea has seen kitchen knives wielded with better grace than the First approaches swordplay.  
  
Andruil, even the fact that she knows what a kitchen knife is now is infuriating. She’s becoming used to the shems’ ways. How long has it been living amongst them? The answer, arriving a moment later as she considers, counting the weeks, is that they have now spent longer as part of this ‘Inquisition’ than outside of it. She’s even recognised, now and then, though more or less exclusively as ‘the herbalist mage’s friend’.  
  
That’s disconcerting. Doubly so when she takes note of the smiles and greetings her First receives amongst the shems and flat-ears. They like him, maybe even look up to him. And it’s because of the hard-won expertise that should be benefiting their own people. Yes, Eldan is helping here, but that means that he can’t help the clan. Does the Inquisition ever consider that? Revea wonders and doubts. If it hadn’t been for the offer that one shem gave Eldan, she’s certain that the First would have been willing to return to the clan by now. Instead, he’s seen the wounded in these Hinterlands and had a fire lit underneath him.  
  
Revea has always respected Eldan’s unerring desire to nurse others back to health and save lives. This just happens to be the first time she’s ever seen that devotion turned to something outside of the clan. It’s not that she doesn’t think the shems deserve help, just that… just that…

“ _Fenedhis Lasa!_ ” she spits vehemently, cresting one of the Hinterlands’ many, many hills. Here in the wilderness at least, she can actually express her frustration without getting strange looks from everyone around her. Demons around every corner, a hole in the sky, and they can’t even tolerate a few words in a language they don’t understand.  
  
Revea wishes that she knew more of their language, that Dirthamen had blessed her with a more scholarly mind, so that she could help unravel the mysteries of the elves’ past. Instead, she’s barely able to remember half the stories she’s told, and it’s been a series of hard lessons to finally commit to memory just which herbs are useful for which effects. She works diligently at it, but where others dance elegantly over problems, circumventing them with cunning solutions, Revea is the one plodding along behind, ploughing straight through. It’s the reason she dedicates herself so thoroughly to the dal’thanaan, an art few of her people practice and fewer still actively encouraged her to pursue.   
  
_‘It’s too heavy for you, da’len!’_  
 _‘Using a weapon like that weighs you down, makes you slow. Come along, I’ll show you some more techniques for the Dar’Misaan.’_  
 _‘Still sticking with the Dal’Thanaan, I see…’_  
 _‘Ha, you blunder around like a shem with that thing, Revea!’_  
  
That gnawed at her then and gnaws at her now. She’s trying to preserve a traditional form of fighting with a traditional weapon, and her only reward is mockery.   
  
An arrow leaves her bow with a quiet thwip. An instant later, there’s a bleating cry of pain, followed by a thump. The rams that roam these lands are a sturdy, swift group of animals, but they’re used to human hunters with homemade bows. Revea’s was carved and strung by the finest craftsman in the clan, and her eye and aim are better than most amongst her own people, let alone compared to shems. The poor beasts never even see her coming.  
  
Lowering her bow, Revea trots off down the hill, down towards the patch of scrub where her prey lies in a slowly spreading pool of blood. It’s a good size, would be good eating for a while… though it won’t last long in an area packed with refugees. Still, there’s enough daylight to take this back to the Crossroads and make another trip, so perhaps she can-  
  
There’s a snarl, and all of a sudden, a wolf pads out from the brush. A large wolf. Revea stops in her tracks, watching carefully. In the time it takes her to shoulder her bow and put her hand on her dal’thanaan, another two wolves have emerged into the open. They’re eyeing the ram, and within a couple of seconds, have turned their baleful gaze on her instead. Revea returns their stares with her own. These are unlike any Fen she has ever seen in the Free Marches, huge and black and with just a hint of glow in their eyes.

And that’s about as much time as Revea has for observation. The lead wolf surges forward, baying for blood. The dal’thanaan is out and swinging in the same motion, catching the lupine assailant straight in the muzzle as it leaps, dashing it aside. The second wolf is there just a moment later, and Revea rides her momentum to bring her axe up a second time, taking a step back to square herself, then putting everything in her hips to arc the weapon through the air again. Another spray of blood, and the wolf yelps as the axe bites deep, cleaving flesh and bone. Again Revea reorients herself, twisting to hunt for the final wolf- and it slams into her from the side.   
  
She staggers at first, and then falls, the animal’s weight bearing her to the ground. She struggles, shifting, and its jaws snap at her face, forcing the elf to jerk herself to the side to not lose an ear. Even then, its teeth scrape at the skin, drawing blood from thin gouges. The slavering mouth looms above, breath hot and reeking, inches away from her cheek, pressing down upon her, using her axe outright impossible. Revea’s hand scrabbles at her waist, fingers groping and then finds purchase, the wolf’s fangs closer and closer- her knife rips from its sheath and plunges into the wolf’s chest. It lets out a howl, and she draws back, stabbing again, again, a warm, stinking spray splashing her in the face. Desperately it attempts to bite once more, but the strength is leaving it, and the wolf sags before at last lying still.  
  
Revea lets out a slow, shaky breath and pushes the body off of her, painstakingly climbing back up to her feet. She’s soaked in blood from head to toe, and the wounds on her face throb with pain. Still, other than a few scratches and bruises she’s okay, for the most part. Falon’Din take this country! That isn’t how wolves are supposed to act!  
  
Muttering darkly to herself, Revea retrieves the dal’thanaan and then looks over to the ram, planning out how she’ll butcher it, what parts of it she can make use of. Maybe she’ll bring back some wolf meat, see how the refugees like that.  
  
Stupid shems. Stupid Fereldan. Stupid First.


	7. Dusty Cadash III

Faith is something new to Dusty. She believes in luck and providence, the cards falling in your favour. That’s not quite the same thing as trusting in a higher power, a grand authority figure with a plan for all, that he just so happens not to really share beyond an obscure, difficult to interpret story. Dusty prefers to focus on the more tangible aspects of the Maker; Andraste, the encouragement to do good. The Herald, even if it’s clearly a subject for some considerable debate whether or not the woman was sent by the Maker or just got very, very lucky. She feels a little bad for picking and choosing sometimes, but in her opinion you can’t really cheat at religion in the same way you might cheat at a game of chance.  
  
The Mother named Giselle that has taken up residence in Haven’s chantry has reassured Dusty that it’s all right to explore different aspects of faith… especially when there’s that whole dwarf thing to consider. The Chant doesn’t mention dwarves at all, though overall Dusty doesn’t consider that to be any worse than Orzammar viewing the Cadash as functionally non-existent. She’s also pretty sure the chantry doesn’t brand anyone’s face for having the audacity to not have important parents, which is another point in their favour.  
  
Dusty got hers when she was fourteen, just a kid amongst the Carta. They like their teens. Old enough to listen to instructions, young enough to avoid suspicion. And young enough that when the guards beneath the surface catch you, they’re so generous as to let you off with a beating, a one-way trip back topside, and a permanent reminder of how Orzammar treats criminals.  
  
That’s the last time the Carta sent her underground. She wonders sometimes whether they hear about the Breach down there, if the concept of a hole in the sky is even something that the dwarves can grasp. Dusty has her doubts.  
  
“If it isn’t my totally law-abiding friend!”  
  
Startled, Dusty stumbles and almost trips. There’s a warm, throaty chuckle that over time has become familiar. A little heat rising to freckled cheeks, Dusty steadies herself and gives a rather cool look to the laugh’s owner.  
  
“So, come to tell everyone that you’re on the straight and narrow? Because after the fleecing you gave the bar at Wicked Grace, I’m not sure anyone is going to believe you.”  
  
“Sorry Varric, but the criminal life just keeps dragging me back in,” and so odd that it’s just  _Varric_  now. When did she begin to be on a first name basis with a deshyr of the merchant’s guild? That’s crazy enough on its own without even adding the ‘writer’ and ‘hero’ parts. Everyone in the free marches knows about Kirkwall and the crazy shit that went on in that place.  _The Tale of the Champion_ might downplay Varric's role in all of the events in the city, but the dangers that a person like Hawke encountered would not have brooked a random tagalong.  
  
Besides, isn't Varric here helping the Inquisition fight off another massive crisis? No... Dusty doesn't think she's ever going to get used to the fact she knows a man like this personally.

“Smuggling again? I’m disappointed in you,” Varric slowly shakes his head. “Between the huge payoffs, the gratitude of the Inquisition and the pleasure of the company of yours truly… wait, where was I going with this?”   
  
“Not that huge. I don’t really see most of what the Inquisition pays for the lyrium,” she gets a cut at least, and given that the first time Dusty found out just how much lyrium was going for her jaw nearly hit the floor, it’s actually pretty gratifying that the Carta trust her with the deals. Well. Doing the legwork for the deals. She’s not important enough to be anywhere near the negotiating table. Even so, a woman could live like a queen off the proceeds of two or three of these deals, up until the Carta caught up, anyway.  
  
“What self-respecting smuggler doesn’t skim a little off the top?” Varric teases.  
  
“One who enjoys her hide remaining intact.”  
  
“That is… a pretty good point, actually. You win this one, Dusty,” there’s an ever so slight frown, easily missed. Faintly, Varric murmurs something that sounds a little like ‘that’s just cheating…’  
  
Dusty doesn’t pry. She’s good at pointedly not asking questions, it’s one of the reasons that the Carta likes her.  
  
“Well, you know. We can’t all be daring heroes that fight along the chosen hero of Andraste and still have time to write books when we get home.”  
  
Varric, from a neutral expression, slowly grins. “You know, I don’t think I ever actually told you I was a writer.”  
  
Dusty swallows. No, no he hasn’t. “I… it’s not uncommon knowledge. Plenty of people in Haven talk about your books.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, if you’d like I have a copy of Hard in Hightown just lying around. It’s about a guardsman called Donnen who’s-“  
  
“Two weeks from retirement,” Dusty finishes, automatically. Then her eyes go wide. “ _Sod!_ ”  
  
“A smuggler who reads my crime serial. Should I be worried you’re looking for tips?”  
  
“I… I should go. Delivery. Lyrium. Have to… do that… with the lyrium.”  
  
Dusty bolts, Varric’s laughter in hot pursuit.   
  
_Me and my big sodding mouth!_


	8. Valor Adaar

“Get up, Adaar.”  
  
Valor Adaar pares open an eye with the utmost resentment. Over her stands the looming, unrelenting figure of the boss of her merc company, Shokrakar, qunari like Valor.  
  
“I got last watch…” Valor mutters, more growls. “It’s still dark.”  
  
“You got last watch. We got demons. Get up.”  
  
That wakes her up in a hurry. “Demons? I thought the big one wasn’t spitting those out any more.”  
  
Shokrakar grunts. “It’s not the big one. It’s a small one. Just opened up an hour ago. Ashaad’s been watching it.”  
  
Valor rolls out of her tent, strapping on a bracer, thankful that all of her gear is within arm’s reach. “I told you that coming so close to Haven was a bad idea.”  
  
The larger woman grins toothily. “What, and miss the chance to fight demons?”  
  
Adaar rolls her eyes. “These rifts are everywhere right now. If we were going to fight them, I was hoping that we’d at least get paid for it.”  
  
Shokrakar, in the process of turning away, pauses long enough to glance over her shoulder. “Killing demons is its own reward, Adaar.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” breastplate comes next, followed by her greaves. All steel, though there’s little protection for her arms. Valor prefers the mobility of not having everything encased, lets her move her shield around a little quicker than most expect, and she’s already damn fast with the longsword.  
  
Fighting demons in the middle of nowhere. Wonderful. Just how she’s always dreamed of spending her adulthood. Still, on the balance of things, Valor supposes that it’s better than working a job that she disagrees with on principle. She and Shokrakar almost came to blows a few months back, when Valor refused to participate in running refugees off some nobleman’s land. It’s taken this long for Adaar to get back out of the mabari kennels. A certain amount of disregard for authority is expected from a band consisting predominantly of Tal’Vashoth, but Shokrakar damn well expects them to listen when she gives orders.   
  
Valor’s shield is secure on her arm as she trudges through the churned snow calling itself footing. They’ve been trekking through these mountains for weeks now, and the novelty has officially worn off. Around her, the Valo-Kas assemble, unhurried and organised, though there is a palpable edge of excitement running through the camp. Most of the others share Shokrakar’s enthusiasm for a good fight, and it’s been a good while since they had any action. They’d been on their way to the Conclave when they found the whole damn thing had blown up before they arrived, which scuppered those plans. Valor had wanted to take Shokrakar’s insistence of coming this way back to Orlais as stubbornness alone… but of course there’s the ulterior motive.

  
Shokrakar stands at the front of the group, right at the fringes of camp. Valor approaches, testing her sword with a slash through the air, and then sheathing it.  
  
“Alright, what’s the plan?”  
  
“They’re demons. We go kill them.”  
  
“Wonderful.”  
  
“Let me know when demons start strategizing, Adaar, then we talk plans.”  
  
Valor grumbles, but says nothing. There’s no arguing with Shorakar when she’s in this kind of mood. It doesn’t stop Valor from trying on occasion, but this particular hill isn’t really worth dying on.   
  
Shokrakar turns to the others. “Let’s keep this simple. There’s a rift over that ridge,” she points for emphasis. “Let’s go kill everything that it spat out. Don’t die, cause I’m not dragging your body over a mountain if you do.”  
  
Inspiring.  
  
The Valo-Kas move out with a roar, keeping to a loose formation. Shokrakar leads from the front, naturally, Valor just a little behind her. Close enough to watch her captain’s back, distant enough to not be perceived as trying to take the lead. Shokrakar can be touchy about that.  
  
The demons arrive before the mercenaries even crest the snow-covered ridge, a hissing and a steam rising in the air signalling the arrival of a rage demon, glowing bright with smouldering flames. Just behind it, wreathed with darkness, a pair of shades. There are more white plumes of smoke behind them, rising above the top of the hill. They aren’t alone.

Shokrakar wades in immediately, wielding the greatsword for which the company is named. Two brutal swings as a shade flows forward and its simply gone, dissolving into shredded shadows. The rage demon puts its ‘hands’ into a funnel shape and Valor steps forward, shield raised to catch the gout of fire that emerges. The heat washes over her, singing the tips of her horns, melting the snow around her, even warming the metal in her hand. Just as it seems it may be too much, the inferno subsides. Valor follows through with a lunge, sword slamming deep into the demon’s torso. It gives an ugly screech of pain and then lashes out with a fiery claw. Valor is driven back a step, the heat of that hand passing so close to her face it nearly burns. Respite is swift in coming; two of her fellows engage it from the flanks, harrying from the sides and with a series of slashes, bringing it down.   
  
Valor grimaces. Most foes have the decency to die when impaled through the chest.  
  
Moments later, battle is joined in earnest. The demons have had an hour to slip through the rift in force; mangled, nebulous things, twisted in form and ferocious in combat. The Valo-Kas are experienced and disciplined, but when faced down with monsters given flesh, it’s difficult to maintain the same battle lust. Valor slams her shield into the ragged face of a shade, driving it back, and then in one smooth thrust, dispatches it. There’s a scowl on her face the entire time. Being good at something and enjoying it are not one and the same. Ahead the rift pulses, bathing the scene in a sickly green light as it hangs in the air, crackling with magical energies.  
  
At some point, as the fighting ebbs and flows, Valor finds herself side by side with Shokrakar again. Her captain pants heavily, covered in black ichor from head to toe. Valor isn’t doing much better, and as she eyes their surroundings, notes the number of mercenaries nursing injuries or already downed, she has a sinking feeling. The demons just keep coming; how long can either side keep this up?  
  
“We’re hurting, captain!”  
  
“I know!” Shokrakar snaps, taking a demon’s head clean off with one brutal swing of her sword. “Got a point to make or you just rubbing it in my face?”  
  
Some kind of projectile arcs through the air, Valor’s shield goes up, and it slams so hard into the block that her arm starts to tingle. “We should pull out! This goes much longer and we’ll lose half the company!”  
  
“I’m not running away, Adaar!”  
  
“If we don’t back out then nobody’s even going to  _walk_  away!”  
  
Shokrakar cuts down another shade, Valor pivots on her heel and in a single motion, brings her blade around and slashing across the face of another approaching on Shokrakar’s blind side. The bigger woman actually looks even angrier at Valor for that.  
  
“Adaar, you have five seconds to shut up before-“  
  
A war horn echoes through the air, deafening, cutting straight through the clash of blade on claw, the screams and yells of the demons and Valo-Kas. Valor twists around to see a group of four barrelling down the hill towards them. A woman wielding daggers, a heavily armoured man just now lowering the horn, a shorter, crossbow wielding figure that can only be a dwarf, a slender elf with a staff. So few? Reinforcements are nice, but four fighters is hardly going to turn the tide-  
  
The hand of the woman leading the charge is glowing with the same light emitting from the rift. In an instant, Valor realises that it’s the herald. That  _is_  how the herald is supposed to look, right? Mark on the hand, human woman?  
  
The quartet slams into the engagement with a vengeance, wreathed in a magical barrier. The herald is a blur of flashing blades, the horn-blower at her side an unmoveable bulwark. They cut through the demons like a hot knife in butter, carving a hole almost straight past Valor’s position en route to the rift. For their part, the Valo-Kas keep fighting, the number of demons waning as more are drawn to the herald and the qunari bring down more. For the first time, the creatures are on the back foot, doubly so as the herald’s wedge drives inexorably towards the rift. Shorakar glowers at the group’s backs. Words are going to be had once this is over.

Which, it seems, is going to be much swifter to arrive than Valor thought. There’s a palpable thrumming sound in the air as the herald raises her hand to the rift and a green tether links palm and tear. The noise ramps up over a few seconds and then  _boom_ … the rift is just gone.  
  
The few remaining demons seem to lose any remaining stomach to fight after that, and in short order, the battle is done. Valor surveys the aftermath with a grim expression. Several of the downed Valo-kas are still moving, which is a relief, but more aren’t. This has cost them a lot.  
  
“Here they come,” Shokrakar growls, apparently uninterested in the butcher’s bill. The herald, with her group, is heading towards them both, probably by dint of Shokrakar being the largest and most impressive looking member of the company.   
  
“I’m not sure what brought you here, but thank you for taking on those demons,” the herald speaks as she draws up, her three companions slightly behind her. She has a slight smile on her face, in spite of being spattered with demon blood. “I doubt we would have been able to break their lines if you hadn’t been here first. I’m Ashlynn Trevelyan. Some call me the Herald of Andraste. This is Solas, Blackwall, and Varric.”  
  
Shokrakar grunts. “Thought you’d be taller.”  
  
The herald looks Shokrakar up and down. “Well, I’d say the horns give you an unfair advantage, if we’re competing.”  
  
Valor’s captain nearly smiles, though it may have been a trick of the light. “Can’t really pass up fighting demons.”  
  
“That’s… both impressively and worryingly brave.”  
  
“Too brave, one might say,” the bald elf behind the herald chips in. “Even should you have found victory, you would have had no means of closing the rift.”  
  
“Thanks, Solas,” another thoughtful look from the herald. “I don’t suppose you were heading to Haven, were you? The Inquisition in need of skilled help, and I can promise that there won’t be any shortage of demons to fight.”  
  
Shokrakar shakes her head. “Nah. We already lost one payday to you chantry types. No offence,” an abrupt turn, and she’s exited the conversation. Niceties have never been the captain’s way.  
  
Valor is left alone with the herald and her companions. “Sorry about that,” she says, awkwardly. “We were supposed to be at the Conclave as security. She’s still annoyed we trekked across the Free Marches for nothing.”  
  
“If it’s any consolation, had you all been there, you probably would have made a set of wealthy corpses.”  
  
Valor glances back over her shoulder. “I’ll talk with her. I’ve been hearing rumours of rifts all across Fereldan and Orlais, and if it’s only you that can shut them, I don’t think enough people are paying attention. She’ll come round if I tell her that it’s the best chance she’s got of fighting demons for pay.”  
  
The armoured human alongside the herald shakes his head. “Acknowledging we need help, but only willing to do the right thing for coin. Odd set of priorities you have here.”  
  
“We’re mercenaries. It’s in the job description, and I’m not in charge.”  
  
He frowns through his beard, but says nothing more.  
  
The herald gives a slight nod. “All right. Still, if she doesn’t change her mind, every set of hands is appreciated.”  
  
“I’ll consider that. Hopefully it’s an offer that I won’t need to take,” Valor crosses her arm across her chest in a salute. “If you get a message from Adaar of the Valo-Kas, that’s me. This threat shouldn’t be ignored.”  
  
It’s only as Valor bids farewell that she realises how deeply she believes what she told the herald. The rifts are everyone’s problem… most people just haven't realised it yet.


	9. Eldan Lavellan III

“You know, if you keep this up I think you’re going to have to start fending off marriage proposals from Corporal Vale.”  
  
Mortar and pestle in hand and in the process of grinding yet more elfroot, Eldan pauses and then looks up from his task. Lounging opposite his workbench is the Herald, tired-looking, but nonetheless smiling.  
  
“I’m afraid I may be something of a disappointment in that regard. Herbs aren’t the best subject for pillow talk.”  
  
“Oh? So, what’s your favourite variety of elfroot?” Eldan actually starts to think about before he catches the Herald winking and stops. Wait a second…  
  
The Herald laughs with delight. “Sorry. Anyhow, don’t let this go to your head, but Vale practically fell over himself to thank me for sending you here. You must have been doing great work all this time, so I wanted to thank you, uh…” she trails off, and then frowns. “Did I… really forget to ask your name last time we met? I apologise, I meet so many people these days that it slips my mind sometimes. My etiquette instructors would think me unforgiveable.”  
  
“It’s quite all right. I am Eldan, First of clan Lavellan. And you are the Herald.”  
  
She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah,” she sighs. “I am,” her hands drop to her hips. “But my  _name_  is Ashlynn Trevelyan. Lady Ashlynn, if we’re to be formal, but please don’t be. It gets annoying.”  
  
“Very well. Ashlynn.”  
  
She smiles, and while the expression is still tired, there’s warmth there. “I don’t see your friend around. Did she leave?”  
  
Eldan shakes his head. “Revea stops by every so often. She has been hunting a lot recently; it does her some good to get away from the crowds.”  
  
“I’m glad that you have someone to keep you company at least. It must be difficult being the only Dalish here.”

“There’s the occasional odd look, but most of the refugees are just pleased to be receiving help, whoever is offering it.”  
  
“Good,” Ashlynn spends a long moment looking out at the Crossroads. They have been transformed from a battlefield into a ramshackle camp into what is now almost a sanctuary. The pitched tents seem to grow more permanent each day, fewer injured need seeing to, and the Inquisition’s efforts become stronger and stronger. “Just a shame that it takes lives being turned upside down to overlook old prejudices. My father would drop dead from shock if he knew I counted elves, dwarves and a qunari as comrades in arms.”  
  
Eldan is consistently surprised at Ashlynn’s demeanour, even in their very brief acquaintance so far. She’s entirely unlike what he has come to expect from humans, and particularly unlike what he had suspected someone referred to as the Herald of Andraste would resemble. Brusque, sanctimonious, arrogant. This woman is none of those things.   
  
“My father hated humans,” he says and immediately regrets.  
  
“Can’t say I blame him,” she remarks cheerily. “We’re pretty terrible as a rule.”  
  
Eldan, stunned, can’t keep himself from laughing. Ashlynn favours him with another wink.  
  
“There’s a crisis going on,” her tone is more sober now. “Anybody who turns away help is officially on my idiot list. The Maker would want us to pull together, cooperate. There’s too much at stake to do otherwise.”  
  
“I stand by the sentiment, if not its source.”  
  
Ash gives him an appraising look, and then comprehension dawns. “Right. Maker. Sorry, I’m so used to being around Andrastians that I forget your people have your own gods. Remind me to ask you about them when I have the time. Or Solas, perhaps; I think you’d like him-”  
  
“Herald!”   
  
An armoured woman with scars and hair even shorter than Ashlynn’s approaches them. An Inquisition crest is emblazoned on her breastplate, a longsword is sheathed at her hip and a shield slung across her back. The new arrival’s only acknowledgement of Eldan is a slight nod.  
  
Ashlynn holds up her hand to Eldan and turns to face the other woman. “What’s the word, Cassandra?”  
  
“A rift has opened outside of Redcliffe. We will need to seal it to reach the rebel mages.”  
  
Ashlynn groans. “I’d like, just once, for this to be simple. All right, let’s move quickly. Fetch… Vivienne and Bull, and we’ll get this done,” an apologetic smile. “Sorry to cut this short, I’m in high demand these days. Maybe I should start charging for autographs.”  
  
“I hardly think that would be appropriate,” the other woman – Cassandra objects.  
  
“Pah, I’ll go through Josephine, you can’t stop me.”  
  
Cassandra makes a noise of disgust. Ashlynn catches Eldan’s eye and grins. He tries to suppress the urge to burst into laughter.  
  
It’s an uncanny resemblance.


	10. Andrew Trevelyan II

A knock at Andrew’s chamber door draws him away from his desk. He looks one last time at the incantation he’s been attempting to decipher for over a week, and then answers.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
A blonde head pokes around the door frame. Celia, originally from Ostwick’s Alienage. Also one of Andrew’s closest friends. “Hey. Got a message.”  
  
He rises with a smile. “Don’t leave me in suspense then.”  
  
That expression falters when he sees the furtive look on Celia’s face. She glances behind her into the corridor, and then slips into Andrew’s room, closing the door behind her. “The First Enchanter wants to see you. “  
  
“By the way you walked in, I’m going to guess that he’s not looking for my opinion on his furnishings.”  
  
“Stop joking around,” Celia’s eyes are hard, and it’s not until a few moments later, when she takes a deep breath, that her countenance softens again. “Sorry. I’m worried. I overheard the First Enchanter discussing you while I was waiting outside his office. I think that… I think they’re meaning to send you away.”  
  
“Oh,” for once, words fail Andrew. That’s … that’s a daunting prospect, especially after the Conclave. He doesn’t like hiding behind closed doors while Thedas burns at the hands of the mage-templar conflict, but to be  _sent away_? What for? Where? Is the Circle trying to pick a side? If so, Andrew can think of many better emissaries than him… though slightly fewer since the disaster at Haven. “Are… are you sure?”  
  
“They mentioned ‘diplomatic ties’ two or three times, and there was something to do with needing an escort.”  
  
“Oh,” Andrew says again, with utmost verbal nuance. “Right. I… I suppose I’ll… see what he wants, then.”  
  
They step forward simultaneously, Andrew pauses in mid step and Celia just continues right on, hugging him fiercely, laying her head to his chest. Taken aback, Andrew’s jaw hangs for a moment. “Um…”  
  
“Just… be careful with it. The last time someone I cared about left the Circle, they never came back.”  
  
“I have no intention of leaving,” Andrew says softly. Of course, Celia’s mentor had been a member of the party Ostwick sent to the Conclave. “And if I do-“  
  
“Don’t talk about that. Please,” her grip on him is the fervent grasp of someone that worries that if they let go, he’ll just float away. Andrew’s hands hover over her for a moment or two, and then settle on patting her on the back.  
  
“Okay Celia, if you don’t let go they’re going to think I’ve taken root.”  
  
The bear hug is finally broken. Celia steps off to the side, and Andrew can feel her eyes on his back as he exits the room, sense the anxiety rolling off of her. Neither one of them can make a claim to being popular around the Circle, and that’s led to the two being very familiar with each other’s emotions. Socially awkward both, she an elf in a group that has its problems with the race, and Andrew, to be blunt, not actually very good at magic. It’s a strange fellowship, but one that has endured a long time.  
  
That, as much as anything else, gives Andrew an uneasy chill as he strides down the corridor of the Circle, mentally ticking through possibilities. Few are encouraging. Fewer still are encouraging and  _plausible_ , though it’s nice to temporarily entertain the notion that the first enchanter wants to promote his quarters to a room larger than the average-sized cupboard.

  
The First Enchanter’s study looms ahead. The door is a huge slab of heavy wood, and though it lies shut at first, as Andrew approaches, it opens. A slender, almost emaciated man with grey hair steps out, face like thunder, robes all in disarray.  
  
“Enchanter Matheld. Is the First Enchanter –“  
  
Without a word, Matheld steps past Andrew, the only acknowledgement that he’s there at all a slight tilting back of his chin. Andrew’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence before he shuts it with a frown. Matheld has never been the most sociable of the senior enchanters, but to out and out ignore him like that… Something very odd is afoot here, as if being sent for by the head of the Circle isn’t enough indication alone.  
  
The door is left hanging open, so with a slight shrug, as if he can fool himself into suppressing his own apprehension, Andrew enters.  
  
First Enchanter Leonards is a young man for his rank, but each time Andrew sees him, his face seems to be a little more lined, his eyes a little more sunken, his hairline a little further receded. He’s the perfect example of a person being crushed by the weight of responsibility, and every mage in Ostwick is aware that the decision for their Circle to remain out of the conflict was far from a unanimous one. Fielding dissent from both sides can hardly be easy.  
  
He fixes Andrew with a tired smile. “Come in, come in.”  
  
Entering proper, Andrew sits in a chair opposite Leonards’ desk. “You sent for me, First Enchanter.”  
  
“Yes I did. Tell me, are you familiar with the Inquisition?”  
  
There’s that word again. There have been a few rumours around the Circle about a rebel group splitting off from the chantry… though Andrew isn’t sure how many of those rumours are just muddled up with the schism of the Templar order.   
  
“Not very,” he says eventually.   
  
“I see. The short version is that it’s a group that appeared after the Conclave, formed at the authority of the Left and Right Hands of the Divine. They’ve rallied around someone they’re calling the Herald of Andraste, whom it’s said was saved from the destruction of the Conclave by Andraste herself. Regardless of whether that’s true, they’re the only person exhibiting the ability to close these Fade Rifts, and the Inquisition is the only group that is focusing on the Breach in the sky.”  
  
That gets Andrew’s attention in a hurry. He’s not ashamed to admit that the idea of holes in the world spitting out demons absolutely terrifies him. Demons in general are the cause of many a sleepless night, and more of them in the world can absolutely not be a good thing. The chantry rhetoric he can maybe do without, but that’s just a matter of being opposed to any dichotomy that says ‘we’re going to shove you in a box for being born with something that you can’t help’. It’s nice to be safe… but there are other ways of ensuring safety than putting your charges in a cage.  
  
“Sounds like they’re doing good work.”  
  
Leonards nods, almost imperceptibly. “They are. It’s why I’m sending you to Haven to join them.”  
  
Those words hit like a punch to the gut. “I… don’t follow you, First Enchanter.”  
  
“The Breach needs to be a priority right now. For everyone. It’s the biggest hole in the Veil in known history, that’s rather more important than a squabble that’s liable to just get people killed.  _More_  people killed. I’ve been urged to pick a side recently more times than I can count; told to declare loyalty to the Circle and Enchanter Vivienne, told that we should be heading to Redcliffe to join up with the rest of the rebels. I say that this Inquisition is our side.”

“Okay, I suppose that makes sense, but…” Andrew gropes for what to say. “I don’t have seniority,” he settles on. “And, not to beat around the bush, First Enchanter, I’m hardly the pinnacle of magical accomplishment.”  
  
“It’s not your talents that make you an appealing representative Andrew, it’s your diplomatic connections.”  
  
Andrew cocks an eyebrow. “Ah yes, my network of agents that I’ve built up over many years of playing the Game in noble circles, each poised at a moment’s notice to- Wait, no, that’s the main character from the book I just read.”  
  
Leonards sighs heavily. “Be flippant as much as you like, Andrew; the Trevelyan name commands respect. That will be more useful to both them and us than sending our most powerful mages.”  
  
A moment of silence, and then the explosion as Andrew stands up so abruptly his chair falls over. “I haven’t seen my family since I was six years old, Enchanter! Do you really think that anyone is going to care about someone who hasn’t been nobility for fifteen years?”  
  
“Irrelevant,” Leonards is perfectly calm, even in the face of Andrew’s protests. “It will attract attention, and for once, it will be the good kind.”  
  
“Do I get a say in this?”  
  
Leonards’ eyebrows go up, and he seems genuinely surprised. “Of course you do. That you’re my preferred candidate doesn’t mean that I’m giving you no choice in the matter.”  
  
Andrew deflates slightly. It’s difficult to be quite so righteously indignant when the object of your ire is being relatively reasonable. “I don’t want to leave, First Enchanter. My place is here.”  
  
“Are you certain it’s your place, or merely where you feel safe?”  
  
“…what are you saying?”  
  
“That you have a very real chance to make a difference with the Inquisition, perhaps moreso than anyone else in this Circle. You’re a mage, you have the noble name, and you have a way with words.”  
  
“I have  _my_  way with words. That’s not the same thing.”  
  
Leonards gives a short bark of a laugh. “When I was your age I hated being cooped up in the Circle. I would have taken the arm off of the man who offered me the chance to leave.”  
  
Andrew looks down, then back up. Leaving is… he’s not even sure how to feel about that. Maybe if the motive for Leonards’ selection was anything other than the family he hasn’t seen since he was a child. “I’m only leaving if Celia comes too; not if you send her, if she  _wants_  to come.”  
  
The First Enchanter’s eyes narrow. “…Agreed.”  
  
Andrew is outside the room and halfway down the corridor before he lets out the breath he began holding after he offered his ‘terms’.


	11. Revea Lavellan II

The shem the others call Vale hugs the First when it’s time for them to leave the crossroads. Eldan is shocked at first, but returns the gesture after a moment.

Revea pretends not to notice, just as she pretends not to notice Vale thanking him, telling him that the next time he returns to Haven, he’ll be sure to pay Eldan a visit, just as she pretends not to notice the First’s smile when he answers that he’ll look forward to seeing Vale again.

She does, though. She feels every look and every word like a twisting dagger to her gut. Eldan is First, a mage, Dalish, and yet he fits better and better into this Inquisition every day. He shares long conversations with his ‘colleagues’ when he thinks that she isn’t around. At times, he attempts to reassure her that it’s his contributions that matter to them, not his race, that the spirit of contribution is important to encourage others to treat elves differently. Treat them better. Revea disagrees. They don’t care that he’s an elf because they can get something from him. The reason that they’re so very accommodating is that he’s doing a great deal for them while getting very little in return. In fact, if the First was willing to make do with what Revea hunts and forages instead of the Inquisition’s provisions, then he wouldn’t be receiving anything from them at all.

Typical shemlen. Do everything for us and we will pay you back later. At some point. When we feel like it.

Watching Vale walk away, Revea turns an arrow over in her hands. Maybe she’s being uncharitable. The people struggling at the crossroads have very little, in some cases absolutely nothing. They’ve been torn from their homes and loved ones – though the bitter part of her wants to say that it’s just a taste of what happened at Halamshiral. Those shems aren’t  _these_  shems, however, and for her part, she’s been treated cordially enough. Even when bluntly telling them that they’re eating wolf. She’d expected that to get a rise out of the shems, instead the response had been that ‘it’s better than nothing’ and gratitude regardless.

That remains unsettling.

Eldan walks over, and Revea gives him a nod.

“Well, that’s the farewells finished with. The next caravan back to Haven is due to leave in around half an hour. I’d prefer if we accompanied them. Safety in numbers.”

“As you say, First.”

Eldan studies her for a moment. “How is your face? You should really allow me to use a little magic to aid with the healing, or-“

“It’s going to scar. Yes First, you said,” Revea’s face has had an awkward loop of bandages across it ever since her encounter with the wolves. Clumsier than Eldan would have done it, but she’s been telling him to concentrate on people who don’t know how to dress a wound. She can do it herself.

The First hums to himself, frowns, and then shakes his head. “You have a pretty face _lethallin_ , please don’t allow it to be marred so permanently because you’re upset with me.”

With that he turns and walks away. Revea stares at his back, mouth moving soundlessly. Did he… actually just say that? She must have misheard him. He must have meant, um…

She has nothing. He just called her pretty. Nobody ever calls her pretty. She’s always been too bulky, too muscular after all the work with the dal’thanaan – some of the other women tease her, say she’s more a man than a lot of the warriors. Overly tall – she has a head on Eldan and he isn’t below average. A scrappy mop of hair that she constantly cuts back because she hates needing to tie it up and hates having it in her eyes. Nobody’s even tried to court her since one of the other hunters made a lewd remark and she threw him in a river for it.

And Eldan just…

Revea shakes her head fiercely. He’s probably just trying to make amends for how tense things have been between them recently. That’s all.

She still can’t quite keep the corners of her mouth from turning up as she starts off behind him.


	12. Dusty Cadash IV

The hardest part of being snowed into Haven is pretending that it’s an inconvenience. Of _course_ Dusty wants to be back on the lyrium run, spending weeks at a time on the road with nobody but surly caravaneers for company, and that if she’s lucky.  Of _course_  this is all just a job to her, another ‘how high’ in a long series of the Carta telling her to jump. Otherwise, the alternative is admitting that this really has become more than a job, and then she’s sunk.

Dusty’s first strategy was to help inspect the mountain passes for any routes that hadn’t been completely buried in snow. Out there in the wind and the snowfall, it was almost possible for her to remember the negative side of spending time in a town halfway up a mountain. Unfortunately, that distraction was quickly over and done with when it became very clear that there were _no_  routes that hadn’t been blocked off. The handful of mages around Haven have volunteered to melt a path, but that’s been relegated to a backup plan for now. Dusty isn’t sure why, though naturally she’s not privy to the Inquisition’s decision making.

Regardless, Dusty can’t help either way, so instead she’s attempting to distract herself with a little target practice, which at this point is the fifth or sixth strategy. She’s quick with a knife when she needs to be, but that’s not the kind of fighting style that you can spar; it’s what you do when you’re scrapping in an alleyway and its stab someone in the kidneys or have your throat cut. Dusty’s only been in that situation three times, and she sincerely hopes that it never happens again. At least the lyrium route keeps her out of doing runs in the cities, though lyrium’s valuable enough that delivering it has an entirely different set of hazards.

There’s a _thunk_  as Dusty’s arrow finds the archery butt, some way off-centre, joining a quintet of other shafts, none close to the target’s middle. She pulls a face. It’s been too long since she’s spent time honing her work with the bow, and sadly it’s showing. Good thing that the Carta and Inquisition have been providing her with supplies for her routes, because if Dusty had to hunt to eat, she’d starve in a hurry.

“I do not believe I have seen you using a bow before.”

Dusty turns, though from the accent, she already knows that she will see Leliana alongside her, walking up as silently as a shadow. The dwarf glances to the weapon and shrugs.

“Harritt let me have it when I asked to borrow one.”

“Doubtless feeling you’re owed a favour or two, no?”

 “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

Leliana giggles, a sound so entirely unlike her and yet so _fitting_ that Dusty is taken aback. “You are very modest, Dusty. I’ve been hearing about you.”

Dusty shuffles her feet. “Bad things?” sod. She’s probably violated some human custom that she doesn’t know about, and now they’re going to kick her out as soon as the snow melts. Which will be totally fine, because she’s not attached, or anything.

…Yeah.

Leliana looks at Dusty for a long moment. “You are _very_  modest. Or else expect very little credit for your work.”

“Oh…” comprehension dawns, and Dusty feels thick in the skull. She gives a quick little shrug. “Only seemed right to help out, since I’m stuck here and all.”

“A stance it would be pleasant if all of our guests shared.”

Dusty looks down to her boots. Well now she just feels awkward; isn’t it better to do something productive than to sit around kicking stones? There’s only so many times she can play Wicked Grace and prop up the bar before she starts to go insane, and the regulars at Flissa’s place are already getting wise to her. No, it’s best to find work for busy hands. If that happens to be odd jobs, then, well, that roof wasn’t going to fix itself, was it?

Mercifully, Leliana changes the subject. “Have you used a bow many times before?”

“A little. Carta didn’t really have me sentry too often,” it feels momentarily odd to admit that so freely, but what does it matter? The Inquisition buys lyrium off of her; or at least off the Carta _through_ her. If they care that Dusty is a criminal, it hasn’t come up yet.

“I see. Can you show me?”

Dusty hesitates a little; showing off is for when you’re actually good at something, not just passingly okay. “I guess.”

It’s difficult to ignore the fact that Leliana is watching, but Dusty does her best regardless, placing focus into her archery first and foremost. Nevertheless, there remains that nagging feeling in the back of her head that she’s being silently judged, especially as none of the next few shafts she looses ends up close to the centre of the target. Dusty finds herself scowling at the fifth such attempt, lowering her bow.

“Your posture is very tense,” Leliana steps forward, alongside Dusty, and mimes pulling back a bowstring. “You mustn’t hold your breath while you draw, it makes your arm tremble,” she exhales, and then lets go of her imaginary arrow. “Like this, you see?”

Dusty frowns, nocks another arrow, breathes out, fires. It hits much closer to the middle of the butt, although still not exactly dead on.

“Exactly. Much easier when you relax a little, no?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the tip.”

“It is no trouble. But I should be getting back to work. You would be surprised by how many reports pile up while we are snowed under.”

“You know me, just waiting to get back on the route again.”

“For a smuggler, Dusty, you are not a very good liar.”

Leliana leaves before Dusty can raise a word of protest. Apparently to the people in the Inquisition, she’s just so much glass. They see straight through her.


	13. Andrew Trevelyan III

 

“I don’t understand, Andrew.”

The alarm and confusion are evident on Celia’s face. Andrew isn’t sure whether his friend is more shocked that he made a demand of the First Enchanter, or that the demand was for Celia to accompany him. “If I go, then you go. “

“But this was about you leaving. Not me. He gave you the choice to say no.”

“Well, yeah. But…”

Andrew trails off. What’s difficult to grapple with is the realisation that it’s not that he has no desire to leave the Circle, but that he doesn’t want to leave Celia behind. He can barely remember a time when he wasn’t in the Circle, just vague memories of a family, parents, siblings. Leonards is right; this isn’t everything he wants, and that sudden knowledge gnaws at him more and more even in the brief time since their meeting. Maybe unlocking the ‘eldritch mysteries of the arcane’ is for some, but Andrew would much rather just read books, and there are surely rather more books outside of the Circle’s bleak stone walls.

“This is home. It’s not perfect, but it’s home,” Celia says quietly.

“No it’s not,” Andrew is surprised by the bitterness in his own voice.

Celia looks away and doesn’t return her eyes when she speaks again. “The Alienage wasn’t. That doesn’t leave many options.”

“And nothing out there can be better than a cage?”

“People die out there, Andrew!”

“People die in here! What- is it better just because you can see the blade coming? No no, you’re right, they don’t kill them, they just destroy their emotions!”

Celia screws her face up tight, and Andrew’s anger dissolves in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “That wasn’t fair.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

Silently, Andrew takes his friend’s hand, and she doesn’t pull away. They sit there together on Andrew’s bed, neither speaking for a quiet that stretches minutes. How many times have they sat like this? When they were children, when they were apprentices, the others pointing and giggling and assuming, thinking that they knew everything. Celia’s been there for him since the beginning, even when she hasn’t had to be, even when it probably would have been easier to focus on herself; one of few elves surrounded by humans, than on a tearful boy who missed his family.

Time for him to be here for her.

“I’m not leaving you behind, all right?” Andrew says at length. “You’re my best friend. I’ll tell the First Enchanter that he’ll have to find someone-“

“I’m coming.”

“I… didn’t think you wanted to,” Andrew looks closely at her face, but can’t read any trace of her pretending, of putting aside what she wants for him.

“I don’t. But I want to stay even less. You’re right; this isn’t home, it’s just, well, where we live,” she looks away again, swipes a robed sleeve across her face. When she looks back, there’s a suggestion of wetness in her eyes. “I was excited to come here, did you know that? I was sad about leaving my family, but deep down beneath it all, I was excited. I thought I’d have a chance to be something other than some poor kid living in a slum. Then two days after I arrived, a Templar smacked me in the head for walking in his way, called me a ‘stupid knife-eared brat’. Magic makes no difference. Just another thing to hate me for.”

“I remember,” Andrew says hoarsely. “That’s when we met. You never told me that…”

“You cheered me up, shared your lunch with me,” Celia is smiling, but it’s through tears. “You never even asked why I was upset, just completely focused on helping. The first time a human ever had a nice word for me, and it came from an eight year old.”

Andrew quirks a smile. “What can I say? When you’re as charming as me, you have to start young.”

Celia snorts a laugh, but her expression quickly sobers again. “Maybe it won’t be better out there. I’ll still be an elf, we’ll still be mages. There are rogue templars out there, demons, we’re hearing now. But if we never take a chance then … what, we stay locked up in here forever? I just… I just wanted to be sure that it was your decision to go, and not mine. You’ve given up enough for me.”

Andrew gives his friend’s hand a squeeze. “Thankfully I’m not giving up anything. Though I might wind up disappointing the First Enchanter if he really does expect me to use my connections.”

“That’s the best part,” a smile plays across Celia’s lips. “If we leave, who exactly is going to bring us back?”

Andrew grins. “I love the way that you think, Celia.”


	14. Eldan Lavellan IV

“So, by the sounds of things, this may be over soon,” Eldan tries to bring it up casually as he sits on a bench in Haven alongside Revea. However, the truth is that the knowledge gnaws at him, a disconcerting knot in his stomach that he would never have expected.

He misses clan Lavellan, of course he does, but he’s been able to accomplish so much with the Inquisition, make a real and tangible difference, even, it seems, improve the standing opinion of the Dalish. Eldan has made friends here, won respect; it’s been an experience of learning and understanding on both sides, and he’s grown from it. And he’s conflicted; he’s very, very conflicted. He has responsibilities to his people, but if they could not do without him, then the Keeper would never have sent him to the Conclave in the first place. If he prolongs his stay, then there is always the Second to fill his duties. On the other hand, Revea has made no secret of how little she likes this situation, and yet if he chooses to stay, then he doesn’t doubt that she will remain too.

Would that be fair to her?

“That’s good,” is his companion’s brusque response. Her injuries have healed well over the return trip to Haven, the angry red marks across her face fading into a subdued pink. With a little time, they’ll barely be visible beneath her _Vallaslin_.

“I’m glad we’ve made a difference.”

Revea looks across at him sharply. “They’d have done this with or without us, First. I just want to go home.”

Eldan can’t stop himself from wincing. It’s just like her to not have any of his softly-softly approach. More fool him for trying it in the first place.

“You can,” he says after a pause. “I will not stop you. You’ve gone above and beyond what the Keeper-“

“ _Lethallan_ ,” her voice is hard. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried. It’s never been about whether or not I _can_ leave. “

He hesitates. “I… I suppose not.”

“So you want to stay? With all these shemlen?” her face twists into an expression that Eldan can’t read, neither quite anger nor sadness. “What about our clan, Eldan? They need you.”

“They need me here!” it bursts out of him before he can stop it, and he immediately claps a hand to his mouth. Oh Creators. He shouldn’t have said that.

Revea’s face goes flat in an instant.

“I see where your priorities are, First,” she says coldly, rising to her feet. “Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have more _important_ people to talk to than a lowly Dalish.”

“Revea, I did not mean-“

“I think you said exactly what you meant, First,” Revea stalks off, one hand reaching over her shoulder to clench her dal’thanaan’s haft in a white-knuckled grip. Some dummies are going to feel the wrath of this.

Eldan sighs, burying his face in his hands. This is not going according to plan. It’s just hard. He feels productive, he feels useful. His clan, his family, they’re important to him, but he’s touched the lives of more people – probably even more _elves_ in the past few months than in his entire lifetime.

He’s struggling to reconcile his loyalties, and the Dalish are losing.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Eldan isn’t surprised to see the now-familiar figure of the Herald walking towards him, though she’s trailed by a young elven woman that he doesn’t recognise, redheaded and wearing the robes he’s come to associate with the mages of the chantry’s ‘circle’. 

He attempts a smile, but his heart isn’t in it. He nods. “Revea… disagrees with my plans. She’s always…” he sighs, drops his head. “She’s homesick, and feels that I am neglecting my responsibilities to our clan.”

“And are you?” Ashlynn quirks an eyebrow at him.

He hesitates. “I have a role to fill,” he admits. “But I am not irreplaceable. I wasn’t our Keeper’s only apprentice.”

“Maybe you should hurry back,” the elf chimes in. “If another mage manifested in your absence, that would be one too many.”

Eldan frowns at the elf. She bears no _Vallaslin_ , and yet there’s something in her voice that he can’t quite figure out, almost a challenge, and though her accent is a little faint, it’s familiar. Certainly that’s more knowledge on Dalish customs than he’d expect from a flat-ea- _non-Dalish_ elf. “The practice is for our own protection,” he says carefully. “And we have always done our best to send those with magic to other clans. It is a burden we all must share.”

She snorts. “Of course it is.”

Ashlynn blinks, glancing between the two of them. “I see that you two are going to get on just fantastically. Eldan, this is Minaeve, she’s in charge of research here. Minaeve, Eldan Lavellan, he’s a healer.”

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Minaeve. _Ir abelas_ if I have offended you.” he says, gauging her reaction to his elven.

It’s not a good one. Her scowl deepens. “I’m not Dalish. Your people made certain of that. Magic is a burden you accept until it’s just too difficult to work around.”

He connects the dots and winces with sympathy. Though he is five years the senior to Ladael, the Second, it was only two years after Ladael began to show magical powers that a third child in the clan exhibited signs of the same potential. He can still remember the frantic worry amongst the clan, the serious discussions held about whether they must turn the child out. Had they not chanced upon signs of a neighbouring clan nearby and tracked them down, their only recourse would have been to leave the girl of six behind.

Eldan hadn’t agreed then and doesn’t agree now. There has to be a better way… though he doubts expressing those views now will win any points with Minaeve.

“Well, if you’re both done glaring at each other, I was actually meaning to introduce you. Eldan’s had a lot of hands-on experience treating the injuries inflicted by demons, and it just so happens Minaeve has been looking into ways of improving our troops’ armour against their attacks. I figured you may have some things to discuss.” 

“I would like that. I admit, I have been at a little of a loose end since returning here.”

Ashlynn laughs. “Don’t let Cassandra overhear you saying you don’t have anything to do. She quickly finds work for idle hands,” her expression softens. “Seriously though, I hope things work out between you and your friend. We’d welcome having you stay, but it’s your choice, you’ve already done a lot; our need isn’t so great that we’d keep someone from friends and family.”

Eldan shakes his head. “The more you say things like that, the more difficult it becomes to leave.”

Another delighted laugh. “Perhaps that was my intention; be so nice that everyone feels too guilty to let me down,” she makes a gesture to Minaeve. “Anyway, I had some things I wanted to show Minaeve before we make preparations for assaulting the Breach. Maker willing, when next we talk, it’ll be beneath a sky that doesn’t have a huge hole in it.”

“I wish you the best of luck.” Eldan’s smiling, and this time, he’s actually feeling it. One way or another, he’ll have accomplished something here. Maybe that’s enough for him, maybe he can take that home. “Goodbye.”

Ashlynn gives an easy wave, Minaeve hangs back, sighs gently.

“Sorry. My experiences aren’t your fault. _Dareth shi’ral_.”

She turns and leaves… and that gnawing sensation in Eldan’s gut just grows stronger.

Dammit.


	15. Dusty Cadash V

When Cadash excuses herself from the celebrations, her excuse is that she just needs to get away from all the excitement. Which makes sense and all, right? They just closed the Maker-loving _Breach_. Well, not her personally, but the Inquisition, and people she knows from the Inquisition, and, well, and…

The problem is that along the way, ‘we’ has gravitated from meaning the Carta to meaning the people of Haven. Dusty is a professional, she isn’t supposed to get attached to clients, she’s supposed to make her delivery, pick up the payment, and then move on. Granted, this has been a longer term deal than she’s used to, and the Carta have been more interested in picking up their money and shoving more lyrium at her than actually welcoming her back, and…

She’s screwed this up. She’s made friends, she’s started allowing herself to put down roots, linger in Haven between her runs, pitch in to help out, spend time with Varric or Mother Giselle, or Leliana, when she’s not busy (which isn’t often).

And now it might all be over. Job done, no more lyrium supplies required. Pack up and go back to the Carta, back out onto the streets, where her next job might involve knives in the dark rather than sneaking contraband around. The realisation she’s struggling with is that she doesn’t want to return. Here, Dusty actually means something. Here, she’s not a disposable, deniable asset that will keep her mouth shut and do as she’s told. People listen to her. More than that, people actually seek her out, sometimes. Just the other day, one of Leliana’s spies was asking Dusty’s advice on concealing a package, and Dusty had showed him how he could slim the lines, make it less obvious he was carrying something.

The Inquisition doesn’t need her; Dusty’s kidding herself to say that. The reverse, though? She’s kidding herself just as badly by claiming that she doesn’t need the Inquisition.  

And that’s why, when the triumphant exultation of them having succeeded begins to fade, it’s replaced by bitter ashes.

She dodges a bear hug from one of Flissa’s regulars, smiles politely to Varric’s friend, the human with the impressive beard, and heads out to the practice areas. Just a moment, she just needs a moment to collect herself, and then she can go back to enjoying the party, worry about all of this later.

That’s the plan, anyway. The unexpected kink in it is that when she makes her way to the archery range, it’s occupied.

A rangy figure nocks arrow after arrow, unleashing them in smooth, flowing motions without even seeming to pause to aim. A weapon is planted in the snow alongside them, haft extending taller than Dusty. The figure’s head turns, and Dusty sees the silhouette of long, pointed ears. An elf.

“Shouldn’t you be at the party, _durgen’len_?” the elf’s voice is without warmth, and Dusty stops, unsure.

“I needed some space,” she answers honestly, figuring that someone practicing their archery at a time of celebration probably doesn’t have much time for evasiveness.

The elf pauses in the middle of drawing back an arrow, and then turns to regard Dusty. Front on, the dwarf can see a series of intricate black patterns dancing their way across the elf woman’s face. That means something in one of the elven cultures, right? The ones who live in the forests and such.

“Yeah. I know how that feels,” the elf says at length, a frown coming and going across her face. “Stay if you wish, then. I can’t stop you.”

A touch awkwardly, Dusty sits down on a tree stump, occasionally glancing at the elf out of the corner of her eye, but trying not to be too conspicuous about it. Could she possibly be an agent of Leliana’s? It would explain an aversion to crowds, as well as being so focused on practicing they’d ignore the very objective they’d completed. Or perhaps she’s just found that the Inquisition doesn’t suit her, and she’s preparing to leave. Hm.

It’s the third time that Dusty glances across and notices the elf looking back at her that she just raises an eyebrow.

“Something on your mind?”

The elf starts, begins to shake her head, and then hesitates. “That… marking on your face. I haven’t seen anything like it before.”

“Ah,” her brand. Right. Her favourite feature. Dusty’s trying to figure out how to explain it when, unprompted, the elf starts speaking again.

“Mine are called _vallaslin_. I think the phrase is ‘blood writing’. They’re a rite of adulthood, show our favour and devotion to our gods.”

Dusty manages a weak smile. “I wish mine meant something quite so nice.”

The elf cocks her head to the side. “What is the meaning?”

Dusty brushes a thumb across her marked cheek and lets out a sigh. “The brand is to show that I have no status in Orzammar, the dwarf city. It marks me as casteless. To them beneath the ground, I might as well not exist. Same goes for anyone who lives on the surface, really. I was just the unlucky sod who got caught sneaking around somewhere I shouldn’t.”

“I… I see,” an expression that Dusty didn’t expect from someone who seems so hard comes over the elf. Sympathy. “I am sorry. Nobody should be banished from their home.”

 _Right_ , that what she was groping for; this woman is Dalish. By Andraste but Dusty can be slow sometimes. No wonder she understands what being an exile is like; neither of them have ever had a true home.

“Orzammar was never home to me,” she replies truthfully. “But I can’t say it wouldn’t have been nice to decide whether I wanted to live there on my own terms. With the brand… well, best for me if I just stay topside.”

“I understand,” another sidelong glance. “My uh… my name is Revea.”

Dusty breaks into a surprised, yet pleased smile. “I’m Dusty. Good to meet you.”

Revea eyes her for a second. “Dusty? As in dust motes?” she suddenly straightens, starting. “It must be part of your culture, forgive me.”

She looks so mortified that Dusty can’t help but laugh. “It’s a nickname,” she manages, between giggles. “Don’t worry, you’re right to think it’s strange,” Dusty winks. “I’ve heard of some dwarf families naming their children after types of rocks, though.”

That doesn’t get a chuckle, but it does garner a smile, which Dusty figures is a good start. She can’t fully explain why she’s drawn to this elf; perhaps it’s a mutual need for company in a more isolated setting.

“So, what brings you to Haven?” Dusty asks after a suitable pause.

Revea’s face clouds over. “I’ve been entrusted with a task. I’m not here by choice.”

Dusty’s eyebrows rise in response. “Guess that’s something else we have in common,” she pauses. “Well, don’t get me wrong, I like it here, but my boss needed someone to make deliveries and well, mine was the name that came up.”

“A member of our clan needed protection. I was chosen to accompany him.”

Revea sounds less than thrilled about it. At a guess, she either doesn’t like the one she’s guarding, doesn’t like Haven, or doesn’t like the Inquisition. Maybe some combination of the three. Not wanting to inquire directly, for risk of seeming nosy, Dusty takes a slightly different tack.

“What kind of person is he?”

The elf bites her lip, and then shakes her head. “Hard to explain. Smart. Much smarter than I am. He sees people in need of help and he doesn’t even think about our being elves and he being a mage, he just goes and helps them. We were supposed to be keeping a low profile, and he just joins the… Inquisition as a healer,” the pause before ‘Inquisition’ speaks of the distaste Dusty suspected Revea of harbouring, but the rest is interesting, different from what she expected.

“You seem to think highly of him.”

“He is First of our clan, and he deserves respect,” Revea answers, though the swiftness of the response gives the impression of it being automatic, mechanical.

“Is that something important?” well, here she goes with the ignorance card again. So many customs and titles to try and keep track of.

“Yes,” Revea stops, and then gives a shrug. “I do not know how to explain it properly. He is… apprentice to the Keeper, who guides our clan. One day he may become Keeper himself, though that is not the way of every First.”

“I think I follow you,” so Revea is the bodyguard to the heir apparent of her whole clan. No wonder she feels under pressure. “That’s heavy.”

“And now he wants to stay. Abandon our clan,” bitter, betrayed.

Dusty winces. “If he’s as smart as you say he is, maybe he has good reasons,” she says gently.

Revea grimaces. “I keep asking myself if I’m just not seeing it, but there are people who need him, people who will be missing him. Hasn’t he given enough?”

The dwarf shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t have answers for you. There isn’t really anyone holding their breath for me to come back.”

Revea’s head drops, sending her fringe across her eyes, and she heaves a huge sigh. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with a stranger. Thank you for listening.”

“Everyone needs a chance to get things off their chest sometimes. Sounds like you have a lot to work through.”

A wry smile. “I suppose.  I haven’t really had-“ she hesitates, then points beyond Dusty. “Are those torches?”

Dusty turns, looks outward into the mountains, and her heart plummets.

Lights gleam in the near distance. Far, far too many lights.

“We need to get back inside,” Dusty can’t keep her voice from trembling. “We’re under attack!”


	16. Eldan Lavellan V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood, violence.
> 
> Whoops I was terrible again.

The ringing of alarm bells jolts Eldan out of the involved conversation he’s been having with Adan, the apothecary. Well, debate may be slightly more apt than discussion, as it’s grown rather heated at times, but the two of them have both had smiles on their faces. It’s good to grapple intellectually, and he thinks that both of them have picked up a trick or two from their argument.

Adan gapes at the alarm, and Eldan’s blood runs cold. Not once have those bells rang since he came to Haven. An attack? Here? After the Breach has been closed? It seems absolutely unthinkable. If this is a prank, it’s the most tasteless Eldan has ever encountered.

“Get to somewhere safe,” Eldan murmurs to the potioneer. “I’m going to see if I can help.”

The elf’s staff settles easily into his hand as he retrieves it from his gear. He hesitates for a moment, and then shoulders his pack too. All of his medical supplies are in there. If this is something serious, then he’s going to need them.

He moves quickly towards Haven’s gate, sliding past panicked and confused workers, swiftly finding himself moving alongside a number of soldiers. Eldan’s grip on his staff tightens as the reality of the situation begins to sink in. Nobody knows what’s out there, just that there are a _lot_ of them, whoever they are. He’s been in fights before of course but this… this is going to be a full scale battle.

“Make way!”

The Herald, accompanied by the severe-looking woman from Redcliffe, Cassandra, a bald elf, and the towering Qunari Eldan knows as Iron Bull. The group moves their way to the front, near to Haven’s gate. The crowd of soldiers buzzes uneasily as questioning voices are raised, as Ashlynn discusses what’s going on with the Inquisition’s commander, Cullen.

Eldan doesn’t need to have an ear in that conversation to be aware that it’s nothing good.

The gates swing open, and Eldan cranes his neck, trying to see over the shoulder of the armoured man in front of him to figure out what’s happening. It’s difficult to get much of a view – Eldan isn’t that tall, but he can make out a figure standing beyond the gate, catching an impression of a wide-brimmed hat and lank blonde hair. Ashlynn and her companions hurry out there, and another conversation ensues – some kind of warning?

No more time to think about it, Eldan would be drawn along with the others even had he not wanted to, and right now, he wants to be out there, he wants to help however he can. Even if he goes home after this, at least he won’t have abandoned the Inquisition when they need him most.

The next few minutes are a blur.

Eldan dashes from the gates, heading out to the fortified position of one of Haven’s catapults. He’s always been impressed by the siege engines, if a little dubious as to whether they’re entirely necessary. Well, this night is making a fool out of him.

Armoured men, armoured… _things_ charge up towards them. Several wear the crests and styles that Eldan has come to associate with templars, but these are no templars. Eldan isn’t entirely certain _what_ they are. Thrumming red crystals sprout from arms, back, chest, seemingly growing direct from the living flesh. The result is a series of twisted monstrosities that turn Eldan’s stomach just to look at, and that’s before taking into account the tangible, sickening hum in the air around them. It’s as if they’re broadcasting their own pain into the air, sending it out in pulsing waves that roil and disrupt Eldan’s concentration, make it difficult to focus on casting spells.

And they fight like men possessed. Maybe they _are_ possessed. The Herald drives a knife through the faceslot of one of their helms, and he still doesn’t go down until she does the same with her second blade. The elf from before encases one in ice, and he’s still reaching, reaching for him even as he freezes solid. Another red templar takes off a man’s arm with a swing of their sword, one of the monstrous beasts _vomits_ a razor shard of lyrium that impales an Inquisition soldier straight through the chest.

Eldan does what he can. He’s a healer, not a fighter. He throws up barriers around the embattled soldiers, channels renewing energy up through the ground, calling on nature in this barren place to keep the Inquisition’s stamina and strength up. He hopes it’s enough. He prays to Mythal, all the gods, that it’s enough.

One of the creatures looms up behind the bald elf and Eldan gives a yell that could have included a warning, but he’s already moving, the tip of his staff glows, and as the elf looks at him with growing surprise, Eldan lunges with a long thrust, slamming his staff straight into the thing’s face.

It tumbles back with a howl, head aflame, and Eldan lowers his weapon, panting. Around them, the last of the red templars have fallen. They have some breathing space, at least for now. The soldiers bustle around the catapult, getting it prepared to fire.

“ _Ma serennas, da’len_ ,” the elf manages, giving Eldan momentary pause. He doesn’t look Dalish, but his accent his flawless. Come to think of it he doesn’t look much like a circle mage either. How strange.

“You are welcome, _hahren_ ,” Eldan replies, dipping his head respectfully. He’s unsure if it’s the correct term to use, but there’s certainly the feel of an elder about the man.

“Solas!” Ashlynn hurries up, glances quickly between them. “I’d love to make some introductions, but no time. Solas,” she says again. “We need to retake the other catapult.”

“Understood,” the elf answers with a nod.

“Eldan, if you could stay here and help hold this position, I would owe you big. We’re stretched thin and another mage is an advantage we could really use,” Ashlynn phrases it like she’s asking a favour, but _says_ it like an order. Even had this woman not been the Herald, she’s a born leader.

“Of course, I’ll do everything that I can.”

Ashlynn breaks into a broad smile. “ _Ma serennas_ ,” she mangles the pronunciation, stressing the wrong syllables. Eldan doesn’t mind, it’s some wonder that she tries at all.

With a brief nod of acknowledgement, Solas follows along after Ashlynn, and Eldan takes a deep breath. He has an instruction now, a concrete goal, and he’s seized by a sudden doubt. With the Herald leaving, and no visible insignias of rank amongst the troops left here at the catapult… did he just get put in charge!?

Oh creators.

No time to worry about that.

Eldan moves from soldier to soldier, checking on those that are downed or ailing. His hands pulse with the warm glow of renewal as he knits together torn flesh, seals wounds, restores lost blood, sets bone and repairs all that he can. Some of the wounded he sends back to the gates of Haven, too badly hurt to be of further assistance here. Several protest, more than he would have expected. Eldan is firm, stern, even – he uses his ‘First’ voice, the one that he puts on when he needs to tell off a junior member of the clan in his official role. It seems to do the trick; he’s stockpiled enough goodwill as a healer and helper that with some reluctance, the soldiers listen and fall back.

And then the next wave of monstrous templars crashes upon them.

Eldan shouts out encouragement, orders, anything that he can think of. It all blurs into a mess where he’s not actually sure entirely what he’s said or he’s currently saying. Every fibre is focused on one simple task; protecting these soldiers, safeguarding the men and women under his… well, under his _command_ as best as he can. Eldan draws on his magic again and again, finding hidden reserves he’s never tapped before. Before now he’s always held back a measure of his powers, made sure that he has something left for a crisis. This surely qualifies.

He’s a walking beacon of life, waves of soothing, healing energy pouring off of him and restoring the troops holding the line alongside. His staff dances through the air, firing off blast after blast of concentrated magical missile, driving back templar after templar. It’s not enough. It’s still not enough. Eldan can’t save everyone, he can’t protect all of them at once, and some wounds are beyond even him, especially when he’s channelling such undirected aid to them. If he could treat them personally, it would be different… but he can’t spare the time, he can’t retreat from his position to help. He just has to hope that this flood of templars abates soon enough for him to get to them.

It won’t, he knows that in his heart. They keep coming, and he’s beginning to flag. This is far too much for him to keep up for a prolonged period of time. An anxious soldier thrusts a glowing blue potion at him in one of the brief reprieves, and Eldan drinks it, choking down the strange, ethereal fluid, causing a renewed surge of magical vitality, but sickening him. Lyrium, he realises. He just drank lyrium. In the short term, it will help. In the long term, too many of those draughts in this fight and he’ll overdose.

At some point, one of the horrors hurls a razor wind of those red shards at him, peppering his barriers… and they waver, one too many spells to maintain at once, in one place or another, his concentration has to give, and this is where it finally breaks.

The barrier shatters, and Eldan squeezes shut his eyes, turns his head away from what he knows will be the end of him-

And is tackled bodily to the ground.

Unprepared, Eldan falls hard, landing heavily on his chest. There’s the scrambling of feet behind him, and then the sound of steel flashing through the air, the sound of a heavy blade planting itself, crunching through armour. He manages to roll onto his back, and there, standing above him…

“Revea!? What are you-“

“You’re not dying on my watch, First!” she snaps, swinging her dal’thanaan in a brutal crescent. “Now are you going to get up, or am I going to have to drag you?”

Eldan climbs shakily to his feet, Revea standing protectively ahead of him. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how tired and drained he feels. He does his best to push the fatigue to the side. He can’t allow himself to give up now. There are people that need him.

A series of arrows loop overhead, and Eldan glances over his shoulder to see that a small figure has ascended the steps of the catapult, using it as an elevated firing position. Several of the shafts are wayward, but it’s enough to give the templars some welcome pause.

Revea says nothing else, just steadfastly joins the line, carving out her own little pocket of safety with the blades of her axe. Even the heavily armoured templars can’t stand before a weapon like that one; it crumples breastplates and cleaves helms as if they’re made of paper. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Revea _truly_ fight, and it’s terrifying. These aren’t wild animals or highwaymen; they’re disciplined warriors with monstrous, inhuman augmentations.

She barely seems to care.

Still, her presence is an encouragement, it focuses him, makes Eldan think about what’s at stake. He concentrates on directing his powers to where they’re needed most instead of just channelling them indiscriminately – he’s not even sure if he can still do that, so exhausted is he becoming. Someone hands him another draught of lyrium and he drinks that too, because it’s restore his own stamina or let everyone around him die. And they’re holding. It’s so damn close, and their numbers are shrinking as more and more soldiers are put down before Eldan can help them, but they’re _holding_.

And then a roaring, enormous creature on black wings comes screeching overhead and rips across their lines in a plume of fire.

Men and women collapse screaming, wreathed in flames. The heat passes so close to Eldan’s face that he can feel the ends of his hair crisping. There’s a yelp from above, and Eldan looks up, startled, just in time to catch the archer as she dives from the catapult platform, moments before the dragon wheels around and immolates that in another burst of flame.

The person he’s just caught is… small. A dwarf? Red-headed, an odd pattern scribed onto her face. He sets her down, and she lets out a long puff of air.

“Oh jeez. Oh Andraste. I’m sorry, I just jumped.”

“Fall back! Back to the gates!” the shout comes from behind them, and Eldan’s gut twists. Ahead, he can see the figures of more templars advancing their lines. The wounded and the dying lie all around, and the order is… the order is to retreat? Leave them?

Eldan grits his teeth, starts forward, and walks directly into the wall that is Revea.

“No, First. The shemlen’s commander says retreat.”

“They’ll die without me!”

“Stay out here and you’ll just die with them, First! You’ve done what you can.”

Eldan’s shoulders slump. They’re depending on him. Ashlynn gave him a job to do, told him to hold this position, and in a moment, everything has been undone. But his clanmate is right; he can’t fight off another wave of templars alone. Stay, and he’s condemning others inside the wall to death. He moves to the nearest soldier, loops their arm around his shoulder, and begins to move back to the gate. The woman’s face is streaked with blood, but she murmurs something that might have been ‘thank you’ as they, accompanied by Revea and the dwarf, make it back inside.

“Back to the chantry, move!” Eldan recognises the human beyond the gate, the authoritative figure that is the Inquisition’s commander. Is it… Cullen? He’s directing soldiers here and there, barking out a constant stream of orders, never seeming to lose track of any of it. Eldan wishes he could have done the same out at the catapult.

“Commander,” Eldan passes off the injured soldier to a man in roughspun clothing. “How can I assist?”

Cullen frowns, looks him up and down. “Our lines are buckling,” he says after a moment. “I can’t in good faith ask you to defend a position that may be overrun at any moment.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

The man hesitates, and then nods gravely. “The perimeter wall could use shoring up. Once they breach it, you are to fall back. You are _not_ to die defending it. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly. Revea, you should-“

Revea raises a hand, stops him. “Don’t even bother, First. I go where you go.”

“I’ll help, too,” Eldan glances down. The dwarf from before is sliding a handful of arrows into her quiver. “I can cover you.”

“You would do that? You barely know me,” Revea’s surprise is clear. She’s never been good at keeping her emotions off her face.

The dwarf shrugs. “Can’t see that it makes much of a difference. Everyone’s in danger. What would I be if I hid while other people protected me?”

Revea slowly breaks into one of the first smiles Eldan has seen from her in months. “You have courage, Dusty,” she looks back to Eldan. “First, this is Dusty. Dusty, Eldan, the First.”

Eldan nods courteously, Dusty returns the gesture.

“Very well, let’s move to the wall.”

By the time they reach it, templars are already beginning to force their way through. A lone figure stands before the wall. They too are wearing templar armour, but they have none of the unnatural red glow about them. The plate is splattered with blood from head to toe, and not all of it belongs to others – Eldan can tell just by the ragged breathing emerging from the templar’s helm.

He’s there in a moment, stretching forth his hand to direct a healing spell towards them. His magical essence touches the figure, and they immediately straighten, sword flashing out with renewed vigour. Revea is amongst the red templars just a second later, a brutal swing carving the misshapen head clean off the shoulders of a horror. A precise set of arrows later, and all of the intruders are dead or dying.

The templar slowly nods, still breathing heavily.

“Thanks,” the voice is muffled, but distinctly a woman’s. “Thought I was a goner there.”

Revea says nothing, sea green eyes focused only on what lays beyond the wall.

“You okay, Lysette?” Dusty asks, stepping up alongside the templar.

Another slow nod. “Didn’t expect to see you out here, Dusty.”

“Oh you know. Got to make sure my customers don’t die on me.”

Lysette gives a low, tired chuckle.

“More coming,” Revea warns, adjusting her grip on her dal’thanaan.

Dusty notches an arrow, Lysette steadies herself, and Eldan closes his eyes as he concentrates once more.

They hold. They do everything they can do hold. Revea’s axe is a shimmering blur in the air, wielded as if it’s light as a feather instead of a brutal and heavy weapon of war. She never seems to tire, coursing with stamina that even Eldan’s magic can’t fully explain.

Lysette’s form is impressive and Eldan gets to see the powers of a templar in action – disrupting the red soldiers as they advance, ripping away the barriers formed by the horrors, and then following up with her blade.

Dusty peppers them with arrows. Some go wide, but more don’t, and what she lacks in accuracy, she makes up with volume. Eldan glances back once, realising that she’s drawing arrows from three quivers, two laying abandoned on the ground.

Eldan continues to call forth his magical energy, even as it runs him down, even as he can barely string together a coherent thought through his exhaustion. He heals, and heals again, he conjures forth a wave of force that pushes the templars back from the hole in the wall, and he reaches… he reaches the limits of his endurance.

His eyes glaze, unseeing, and he drops to a knee. There’s nothing, there’s nothing left. No, he can’t let this, he can’t, he has to… there must be some way to keep fighting, keep struggling. He can feel it. No, Eldan can taste it, almost, one last reserve of power, one area that he hasn’t tapped. He reaches for it, and it almost seems to reach back to him, offering like a beckoning hand.

Eldan grasps it.

_All of them will taste my wrath._

And a chill of dread runs through him because that thought wasn’t his own.

_No, little mage, it was mine._

_And now, so are you._

The last thing Eldan hears is his own tortured scream.


	17. Revea Lavellan III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This is bloody.

Revea has never fought like this before. She’s never truly unleashed the dal’thanaan on foes in a pitched battle. She’s practiced with the blade for hour after hour, she’s fought off wild animals, shem highwaymen on two occasions.

This is not a skirmish. This is a seemingly endless assault.

Her axe is slick with gore. _She’s_ slick with gore, blood spraying as she brings the dal’thanaan across in great cleaving swings that even these monstrous beasts cannot stand before. They may have chunks of crystal protruding from their skin, the air around them might sing with an unsettling buzz, but slam an axe into their head, and they’ll go down just the same.

There’s a grim and morbid satisfaction to take from that, and viewing the fighting in such a fashion lends a much needed layer of distance to what’s happening. If Revea just views the templars as targets, regards the battle as another training exercise, it allows her to, at least a little, separate herself from the fact that she’s carving through flesh and bone.

Truthfully, Revea is scared. Her muscles burn with desperate fatigue as she attempts to maintain her momentum. Time and again, she just barely stays ahead of the blade or misshapen claw that lung for her. Time and again, it’s only a well-timed deflection by Lysette, an arrow arching past, or a renewed surge of vitality from the First that keeps Revea a step, just a step in front of her assailants. It’s the First’s efforts that are keeping them going, protecting and shielding, restoring most of the minor injuries before they even properly register. This is true Keeper arcana in action.

And even so, Revea isn’t certain that this is sustainable. She isn’t sure how long her comrades can keep this up. And that’s strange to think of them as comrades, because other than Eldan, her clanmate, this is a _shemlen_ and a _durgen’len_ , and yet they’re fighting alongside her as bravely as any Dalish. Dusty isn’t even a warrior, from what Revea knows, but she’s protecting them. She’s protecting her home, her ideal.

Maybe that’s what Eldan sees in the Inquisition.

Revea pants for breath, holding the dal’thanaan in a guarded position. There’s blood in her eyes, a cut across her forehead streaming; she can’t even remember how it happened. Her exhalations plume in white smoke ahead of her, steaming in the cold mountain air. Then, abruptly, the benign, soothing aura of Eldan’s magic surrounding her blinks into nothingness.

Revea knows something is wrong the second she hears the choked gasp from behind her. Not a cry for help, not a warning, just a strangled, cut-off gasp.

The sudden agonised scream confirms it.

“First!”

She plants a boot in the armoured chest of the lyrium-studded monstrosity in front of her and kicks it back, whipping around to see, to see…

Eldan’s eyes are rolled back sightlessly in his head, a hand clapped to each temple as he writhes in pain on his knees.

And his body is glowing, pulsing with a sickly pale light from within as he shudders, twisting this way and that. He screams again, and for a second, the outlines of his shape seem to blur before snapping back to normal.

“What the hell is wrong with him!?” Dusty yelps, her arrow flying errant and burying itself in the wall. She doesn’t even appear to notice, standing there transfixed by horror.

Revea wants to go to him – she has to! Has to find some way of helping- but even as she steps forward, there’s a roiling wave of … of something she can’t even describe, pushing her away with physical force. The dirt around Eldan’s feet ripples, fanning out in concentric circles that leave disconcerting patterns behind. Blood is trickling down his face, from his nose, from his eyes, like crimson tears, streaking his _Vallaslin_ , distorting the pattern into something terrifying.

The shemlen, Lysette, slams her shield into a foe’s face and halfway turns. Revea can’t see her face, but the pure unadulterated horror in her voice is indication enough.

“M-Maker protect us,” she stammers out. “A demon has him!”

“No!” Revea barks. “He’s stronger than that!”

He is. He _is_ strong. Eldan’s the First, trained by the Keeper since they were both children. He knows the old ways, he knows magic, how to keep himself… keep himself safe. He’d never fall prey to a demon, let a malignant force get the better of him. He’s Eldan, filled with that infuriating poise, never seeming to doubt or falter, striving to do the best he can, even when she may not be supporting him.

He can’t possibly-

“We must prevent him from-“

Whatever Lysette had been about to say is lost to an unearthly howl. Eldan’s mouth gapes wide, far wider than should be possible, and then with a sickening snap, his spine twists backwards.

“ _LETHALLAN!_ ”

No, no, no, no, no, _no_. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.

Revea reaches for her friend, and stops dead in her tracks as Eldan’s body- as Eldan rises off the ground, as if drawn up by invisible strings. Each arm twitches sporadically, undirected spasms that are more akin to death throes than actual movements. His head lolls backwards, and then with unnatural suddenness, jerks forward. His eyes fix on her, and they’re a glittering, gleaming red. The blood that had trickled down his face has crystallised into something else, a fell ichor that distorts his jawline like melted wax.

“So eager. So earnest,” Eldan intones, in a voice which is simultaneously everything and nothing like him. The pitch and timbre are right, but it drips with a contemptuous conceit the likes of which Eldan would never show. “Poor Eldan. Doing all he could to save you, and it just wasn’t enough.”

“Let him go, _elgar’harel!_ ” Revea snaps, trying to keep it from sounding like a plea.

Eldan studies the back of his hand, turns it over, regards the palm. “No. He is mine.”

“More templars coming!” Lysette cries. Revea twists, and Eldan makes a lazy gesture.

A roiling fireball bursts past Revea, forcing her to dive to the side to not be burned to a crisp. The flames sear past her, and in a blast of immolating fire, the red templars that had been crowding through the breach in the wall are just gone, incinerated.

Revea turns back to Eldan. There’s a cruel, ugly smile on his face, the face that she’s known since she was a child, and an expression she’s never once seen across it.

“ _Lethallan!_ ” she calls desperately. “Fight it! I know that you can!”

The smile widens into a grin, showing teeth, gleaming white. “He was too weak to fight. He let me in. Your precious First _submitted_.”

“Shut up! Eldan, listen to me!”

“He’s gone!” Lysette shouts. “Your friend is possessed!”

“Shut _up_ , shem!”

She doesn’t want to think about this.

It’s beyond her worst nightmares.

Protect him, the Keeper told her.

Stop him from coming to harm.

Is it possible for her to have failed more completely in that task?

_Master Faeval, what happens if the Keeper can’t banish the spirit?_

_Hush da’len, she will be fine._

_But what happens?_

_Then… then we have to deal with it ourselves, da’len. Do not worry yourself, the Keeper knows what she is doing._

She hadn’t really understood what Faeval meant in his answer. As Revea had grown older, she’d come to a grim, unspoken understanding.

Eldan leers at her- no, the demon leers at her. It’s a demon perverting the form of her friend.

“I’m sorry, Eldan.”

The monster wearing the First’s skin has just about enough time to frown before Revea swings the _dal’thanaan_ around with all of her might and plants it so deeply into the creature’s chest that she hears something break in its back.

A gout of blood spills from its mouth, and those shining red eyes widen with shock, arms jerking out to the sides.

Its whole body quivers for a moment, and then an expression of absolute serenity crosses its face, even as steaming black fluid leaks out from the enormous wound in the middle of its torso.

“Th…thank you… _lethallin_ …” murmurs Eldan, pitching over backwards.

Revea stares down at his motionless body.

She doesn’t even try to resist as Dusty and Lysette bundle her away, towards the chantry.

She’s failed him. She’s failed everyone.


End file.
